


Souls Unbound

by touchstoneaf



Series: Souls In Bondage [4]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics 1998), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Adult Language, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood Drinking, Character Death, Comedy, Dark, Don't copy to another site, Drama, Drug Use, Erotica, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fighting, Horror, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I make no excuses, Long as hell, M/M, Romance, Sparring, Suicide, Torture, Violence, and i make no apologies, and onward, because wtf, bring back the sanity, comics S8 rewrite, comics fixit, comics-wrangling, disavowing that Twilight bullshit, no beta we die like men, or centaurs, or giant earth gods, or space bugs, or weird mecha fights, there will be no space sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 311,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25470958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchstoneaf/pseuds/touchstoneaf
Summary: Part 4 of"Souls In Bondage"seriesThe Scourge are done for.  The baby Slayers are back on track, nicely settled under Xander and Willow’s careful tutelage.  Dawn is right-sized.  Things with Giles are… steady-ish.  And Buffy and Spike have found a nice safe haven away from it all where they can just be.  Dial in case of Apocalypse.  Sort out the gray areas on their own time and terms.  Maybe redefine the whole relationship between demons and humanity, and vamps and humans… and of course Slayers and vamps.  You know; given enough time and… social intercourse.Anyway, that was the theory.  Then the whole thing started with the military, and Amy.  And then Willow and Xander decide to show up on their doorstep.  And there was that thing with Faith and Giles, and…  Jeez.  Hellmouths weren’t the only things that keep rumbling.Well, at least they’d closed the book on Angel, right?
Relationships: Andrew Wells/Other(s), Angel (BtVS)/Cordelia Chase, Connor (AtS)/Dawn Summers, Dawn Summers/Other(s), Faith Lehane/Other(s), Illyria/Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, Rupert Giles/Ethan Rayne, Spike/Buffy Summers, Willow Rosenberg/Other(s), Winifred "Fred" Burkle/Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, Xander Harris/Other(s)
Series: Souls In Bondage [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1422868
Comments: 72
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinkerbell72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinkerbell72/gifts).



> ( **Note:** This is a sequel to “Home Is Where the Scourge Is”, and is **Part 4 of the "Souls In Bondage" series.** If you haven’t read the rest, you’ll have no idea what the bloody hell is going on. I mean, you can; I can’t stop you. But a lot of what’s happening in here will be taking place in a world unrecognizable to the uninitiated.)
> 
> **Notes on timeline:** This story starts sort of mid-S8 of the comics and proceeds onward into season (I haven'd decided yet, since I incorporate events from a lot of them). So for those of you who have made a stab at reading Buffy's so-called "Season 8” and onward… I'm ignoring a lot of that timeline (partially because I haven't read them, lol, I did a lot of looking at the wiki). Mostly because it irritates me that they used the word "season" for 8, even though it appeared to cover a year and a half to two years or so of ground Meanwhile, when you lined it up with things like Angel's season 5 it just couldn't make any sense, unless only the first couple of issues coincided with that show, or Harmony would be on TV, everyone would know vamps existed, and Angel would be a double-agent for the US government while he was working for WR&H. 
> 
> Suffice it to say, all mistakes are mine, and mostly I don't care. Also, some stretches are wildly deliberate. And I don't apologize. Let's just say that around the time of this story, the remains of the Scoobies are well settled in the new center in Scotland or in Giles' place in Russia, Andrew is back and forth between there and Italy, Faith is at loose ends in the States, and the US military is starting to really become a problem, though our peeps don't know it yet. 
> 
> **Formatting Note:** For anyone who’s brave enough to enter this saga in the middle (run away now and come back after reading Parts One thru Three! Ahem. I mean, do you, I’m glad you’re here!) I do a weird thing. Or, at least, it’s weird nowadays. I use an old fanfic convention from long ago because I'm ancient, and we didn't used to have access to italics in the days when I used to fic. Can't break the habit now, I'm just too old and it looks weird for me without it. Character thoughts look like this in my stories: /Blah blah blah./ Oh, and if you see this: --Hello, I'm speaking to you like this!-- that indicates telepathic communication. Another old holdover, necessary because we have Betta George in this fic.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All characters property of Joss Whedon, damn his brilliant, confusing soul. And Mutant Enemy. And apparently some people at, I guess, Fox, now? (Who can even keep track anymore. I’m still half-stuck in the WB/CW/UPN confusion.) All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, yadda and blah. The OCs are MINE, ALL MINE! I am in no way associated with Joss, Mutant Enemy, UPN, Fox, or any other media franchise. I intend no infringement. I intend sexy shenanigans and JUSTICE FOR SPUFFY!
> 
> **Pairing(s):** Um, Spuffy. Always Spuffy; ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP GOODNESS AHOY. Other than Spuffy, acknowledges all canon pairings up to the end of S7 of BtVS and S5 of AtS and then takes a header right off into the land of canon-divergence, because that’s where I live. 
> 
> **Rating:** Oh, this is so very NC-17. If it’s Spuffy and it’s not, I’m really not sure what you’re doing with your life. I mean… Mature, kinky goodness. Blood-playing, claimy fun. (Spuffy ain’t shy.)
> 
> **Special Thanks To:** Every single one of you who read and followed this series from the start, I deeply appreciate you for all your amazing support over the last year! I may be in the middle of a part 5 (I'm waffling about that), but in the meantime, you're all amazing.
> 
> **Author’s Note / Dedication:** I think I'm gonna dedicate this one to Tinkerbell72 for all your awesome comments from the start! Thank you so much for all your continued patronage!

_Well, so. Here we are, at the projected (lengthy) end of the series, though of course now I already have ideas for a (hopefully short, but knowing me? All bets are off) Pt. 5, so whatever. We have tons of ground to cover, since now I've had my fun in the in-between period, we're leaping back into canonical events once more. Just like with the LA-in-Hell sequence, this is a lot of winding my own ideas into the hot mess that was the comics, to (hopefully) come out with something that makes sense (though, much more fixits are required, since the IDW comics were a lot more coherent than the disaster that was Buffy S8 and such). Also, obviously y'all can tell by the ratings that this one gets back into the madness, after the kindly and loving hiatus that was our road trip, which..._   
  
_Blame the comics. There was only so much I could do to straighten those damned things out. (Also, this is my confession right here at the outset; for the first time I have literally zero idea how long this bugger is gonna end up being, because I'm posting it as I write, just as i'm doing with my other WIP. I have a whole heck of a lot finished, so no worries about my having plenty ready for y'all, but I've also got a lot of comics ground to cover, so who knows. No idea how long it'll take me to get to the my 'vision' of where they're supposed to wrap this thing up. Fair warning.)_

_Speaking of, y'all have no idea how very much I appreciate every single one of you for coming along to continue this series. I promise I'll do my damnedest to make it good for you!!!_   
  
  


  
  
  
“The perception that divides you from him… is a lie. For some reason, you never asked why. This is not a black-and-white world. You can’t afford to believe in ‘your side’. This is not a black-and-white world. To be alive, I say the colors must swirl; and I believe that maybe someday… we can all get to appreciate the beauty of gray.” 

* * *

**B:** _  
_  
Buffy walked through the beach house, trailing her fingers along the knobbly, stucco walls. The texture felt… oddly numb. Oddly attenuated from her reality, which was strange, because after six months she knew this place like the back of her hand. Like she had known the Pink Palace, or the Hyperion, or the apartment in Rome, and much better than she had ever known the castle in Scotland, or…

She passed the kitchen, where Tiny came every evening to cook meals for their small cell; the one they had eventually dubbed “The Apocalypse Fire Response Brigade”. Tiny wasn’t here right now, of course, since it was… lunchtime? Actually, she really wasn’t sure what time it was, since the place felt super with the oddly-echo-y-empty. But since their Loose-Skinned Chief Feeder-Upper wasn’t here cheerfully singing all off-key and making Spike groan as he tried out Spanish love songs, that meant it had to be something other than dinnertime, right?

Of course, if it was a late enough lunchtime, that might mean maybe Spike would be waking up soon to cook something. It had been a revelation to find out that her guy, her _vampire_ , was an excellent cook, considering that A), he didn’t need to eat, B) had had servants growing up, and C) he came from a time when men not only didn’t cook but were probably wildly discouraged from knowing how even to make meat be not-raw. But he had apparently chosen to learn at some point or another, and when he had realized just exactly how much of a disaster Buffy was in the kitchen (he had caught her burning herself an omelet once while Dawn laughingly declined to join in the results), he had muscled her out of the room and made a near-perfect one himself in about one-tenth of the time, plunked it in front of her and his ‘Niblet’, and pronounced that she should never, ever, under any circumstances come near the stove again if she valued her life. 

Dawn had glowed every time Spike had cooked her anything; even a stupid waffle. Though, clearly, her sister had already been well aware that their guy was all vampire Emeril from their time together sans-Buffy, back in the day. 

Between some pretty terrifying mutual kitchen adventures, and the great, ongoing ‘Crash Bandicoot’ war, Buffy was honestly lucky to ever get access to her vampire while Dawn was living with them. Those two had had their heads together like ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, arguing over who was going to get the most points or win the next game or make the most interesting epicurean disaster or whatever. Their mutual tally of wins to losses in the videogame had climbed to astronomical heights throughout the last four and a half months, Dawn’s frightenin list of bizarre-ass recipes (for herself and Spike, no Buffy included, thank you very much, because Buffy so was not going to join in on experiments like ‘bacon-fried-ice-cream-with-anchovies-on-tortilla-pizza’ and ‘burba-weed-jalapeno-chocolate-maple-AB-negative) was mostly a bunch of crossed-out lines with maybe three clear winners so far (at least in their books. They all sounded disgusting to Buffy, who was apparently totally vanilla about food. Give her a nice steak and some wine anytime).

And no. She was not in any way jealous of the time they spent together. She actually really enjoyed watching them bond, even if she sometimes found their dynamic utterly bizarre. However. School had beckoned, and all this uninterrupted family time had meant that getting ‘the Niblet’ out of the house to go back to Berkeley last month had been kind of a struggle. Only by the dint of actual threats had they convinced Dawn to get on her Organization-paid plane, courtesy of Giles, to head back to California. 

Trailing her fingers over the crossed-out list of gross recipes, Buffy wandered back out of the small, neat kitchen in search of some other denizen of the oddly-silent house. If Spike wasn’t in here, maybe he was out back on the sheltered veranda with Gris and Rinne, having a wake-up smoke. Or maybe with Maria... except probably Maria was still out and about with Jamal, who was so not a smoker. Those two had mentioned heading into town to get groceries over last night's game.   
  
No one was going to see Betta George unless he decided to float in on the tide for evening check-in. He generally spent his days disporting himself in the Mediterranean waves and tuning out surrounding mental noise, enjoying the surf and sun and… well. He did a lot of avoiding being caught by overzealous fishermen who thought a very large guppy like him would fetch a seriously good price on the sushi market or something. Buffy kind of thought he lost track of time a lot, because he usually didn't join them on the daily unless he sensed there was something going down. It was good for his stress-level to chill amongst species who didn't angst all the time; which was fair, Buffy thought. No doubt the telepathy thing was tough to handle on a good day, and they had all had the hell of a time during the Hell-A thing. Betta George had probably come here to join them partly just to escape all the PTSD in LA and get a vay-cay away from all the freaked-out minds. No reason he'd want to come up out of the nice, warm Mediterranean surf to listen in on all their petty mental garbage unless there was a need for his services. /I know I wouldn't, if it was me./  
  
They all deserved the damn break.

Things had been interesting since they’d reassembled the Hell-A crew here in Spain. Buffy and Spike had talked about it after their first month or so here in Almerimar, and they had finally decided to put out some feelers through the general vicinity of the LA demon network. _"Just on the off-chance,"_ Buffy had put in tentatively, while her guy nodded and caressed her shoulder in thoughtful accord. Who knew; some of the 'Spikettes' and/or any miscellaneous friends-in-arms from that bunch might want to get away from it all, but might still need to feel useful in case of emergency. It was a way to strike a balance; to escape the noise and cognitive dissonance of reentry, without feeling like a jerk for bailing.   
  
Buffy knew from that guilt; the feeling that you were abandoning the thing you'd fought so hard to protect butting up hard against the sure knowledge that you just couldn't take another second of mental noise, of demands, of pressure to _do_ something. She had had that her entire life, since the Calling. Eventually enough was enough. 

She had half-thought none of them would answer. They were, after all, wrapped up in a lot of tough memories for that bunch. Love, loss, death and pain; the works. But instead, they had gotten replies immediately. Within a couple of weeks, members of their old Pink Palace bunch were filtering in, along with some post-Beverly-Hills ‘Team Spike’ peeps. Gris and Rinne were the first to arrive, of course. Nina, of all people, showed up next, which had kind of surprised both of them considering she could have hooked back up with Angel, and god knew she had her own problems in this dimension. Though she had avoided touching on the former mess, Buffy had asked Nina upon her arrival if she wouldn’t rather head over to Tibet to find out from Oz how his whole ‘control the wolf’ project was working. Nina had just shrugged and said, _“No. I'm okay for now. My family knows I'm... taking a sabbatical."_ And then she'd paused, looking suddenly anxious. _"I mean, if you guys are okay with chaining me up somewhere once a month?”_

It wasn’t like that approach was new or anything.

Maria might not have been a surprise, but Jamal… Not that they weren’t kind of a package deal nowadays, but getting another were-person as a two-fer had been sort of unexpected. Jamal had zero allegiance to their team—in fact, Buffy kind of thought he seriously resented them, considering the way Maria had died back in Hell-A—but there he was on their doorstep with her. At first Buffy was pretty sure he was only really there out of loyalty to Maria, though apparently Nina had also somewhat convinced him it was a good fight to be in.   
  
Well, he wouldn’t be the first ‘plus-one’ to join a group like this. And he'd been unfreezing around all of them since then, if slowly. No one was really entirely sure what his hangup was with people or groups or whatever, but no one bugged him about it. This was a bunch who were generally pretty well-versed in taking people the way they came.   
  
Their first clues about Jamal's motivations, and his anxieties, came later, after Betta George actually _swam_ all the way over from LA. He'd arrived just in time for Christmas, throwing them a casual line as they arrived about how the Mediterranean tended to be a lot nicer—and warmer—as a general rule than the Pacific; at least near California. --It’s for sure cleaner. At least, away from the ports, it is.-- 

Along with Jamal, George had become a sort of part time member, coming into shore whenever he ‘heard’ that they needed him for something, or when they called him, and always kept his telepathic ears tuned. But Buffy wasn't lying to herself; this little cell of theirs was as much retirement community as it was Apocalypse Response Brigade. Every one of them were willing, if absolutely necessary, to do what was needful, because they were aware they had the skills—and she thought, because they were all the type of people who felt a little like they had to earn their time off—but most of them were here as a nice break from their previous surroundings. Betta George wasn't the only one who had bailed from the psychic pain they had experienced during their time in Hell-A, and, for some of them, before as well. 

Pretty much their entire crew had taken them up on their offer more to get the hell away from the vast city full of thousands of traumatized people than anything, and to hang with people who had been there, got it, and wouldn’t begrudge them the time to heal. Wouldn't ask them to jump right back in and use their knowledge or abilities to chase down more of the lost and suffering to succor them, when they still needed time to get themselves back together somewhere away from a city where they might as easily end up on someone's speed-dial, just because they happened to have been in actions with the current do-gooders. It was tough sometimes to be known to the right people. You got lumped in with the assumption that you were a part of a solution, when you might just as easily prefer to be left alone.   
  
It was Jamal who had eventually enlightened them to the main problem they had all had with staying. _"You know, that guy Gunn came up to my crib. I was chillin' with Maria, playing 'Halo', and he rolls up and asks me to drop everything and come with him to talk a bunch of werewolves out of some nest they had down on the docks, like I'm some kind of expert, all, 'We gotta convince 'em to leave town if they don't wanna end up dead'. Like it's my problem just 'cause we all got bit by the same demon species once upon a damn time."_ Resentment had fairly dripped from Jamal's tones. _"I don't know why he thought it was something I needed to be in on, just 'cause I helped his boy out sort of by accident, because I was helping Maria and she was helping you. And talk about making enemies! I asked him why they didn't bother Nina, since she was their girl, and he said Angel didn't think it was her style."_ His face had turned to stone. _"Really that just meant vamp-boy didn't want his shorty to get in trouble with the locals. He was protecting her, but he didn't give a damn if I got into the mix. So I said no. Let them handle it. Not my problem. And I sure the hell didn't want them to try to get me into any more of that mess again, so when Maria said we should bail and come over here, I figured, what the hell. I could learn some more damn Spanish, right?"_  
  
It kind of put the whole thing into perspective, why some of them had showed up so damn fast. Especially Betta George. His abilities would've been in high demand for Angel Investigations, without much thought to whether he needed a break from all the existential agony going on in LA.   
  
George had a better reason than any of them for staying away. But because they didn't openly call on him, he flat-out volunteered when he was needed. And when he chose to be available, he was damn good for helping them to suss out the motivations of the local demon leaders, things like that. Stuff that was short, sweet, shallow, and didn’t dip into a lot of empathetic agony. The downside being that he also had kind of a tough time blending in in public venues, so that made his usefulness a little… Well. Choice, unfortunately. 

Everyone had their pros and cons when it came to fitting into the wider world.

Tiny, who had come in with Maria and Jamal, had brought the heart of the group along with him. He spent all his time cooking up a storm whenever anyone even remotely looked a little bit hungry, and bringing with him a singing, soulful, sweet energy that Buffy had been missing, honestly, since Tara. Even though having him there also really made Buffy miss Clem. She had asked Spike once if he thought they could convince their old friend to join them there, but he’d been dubious. _“Clem’s not a fighter, pet. Not that this one is, but he’s been in it, yeah, in Hell-A? Clem’d rather stay away from a battle. He’s probably holed up somewhere where the cable’s good and the food’s better, far from danger as possible. Still don’t know how the bugger he ended up in a hellmouth in the first soddin’ place, less it was ‘cause of the reputation for bloody good kitten poker.”_

Anyway, Buffy hadn’t given up hope on Clem, since it wasn’t like they had spent much time fighting, yet. And Tiny wasn’t exactly a combatant. He was their darn chef, and seemed happy as a clam doing it. 

He pretty much rounded out their group. They now occupied three separate demon-owned houses and apartments scattered around the general vicinity—the sisters and Tiny in the bungalow next door and Maria, Jamal, and Nina in an apartment about a block up the road, while George snuggled up in some real-estate in a nearby reef or something—making up their own little 911-only cell down here. No one else really knew about it, of course, but that was what it was. Because even though no one exactly discussed it, they all knew that if anything went down, their Hell-A friends would be behind them one hundred percent.

That was the part that gave Buffy pause, though. No one was in the house at the moment, weirdly, even though this was totally the hangout. Dawn’s former room, which had since been tricked out as the poker area, was empty, as was the back veranda where Spike liked to hide out from the sun and smoke during the day. Really, the whole thing was starting to freak Buffy out; or would, if she could muster any emotion past the strange, gauzy feeling of unreality that kept filtering through around her. The light was so… strangely ethereal right now, almost _wavering_ around her. Like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere in particular; a really unique quality of light she had never seen here even on the brightest of summer days… and this was in no way summer. It was freaking February. Which, granted, wasn’t the coldest time environment ever, being as this was Spain, but it wasn’t exactly blazingly bright all the time, either. 

Not that she felt chilled, either. Nor did she feel warm. She felt… nothing in particular, really, temperature-wise, and was this normal for a Spanish winter day?

It was almost… Slayer-dream light. Except… she didn’t have that _feeling._ The Slayer dream feeling was very specific, and this…

Turning away from the strangely-bright veranda with its trailing coils of winter-withered wisteria, Buffy headed back inside to check the bedroom. Not that she expected to find Spike in there, since she couldn’t feel him from that direction, but it was worth a shot. He could still be asleep, and just out so deeply that his buzz was way muted or something. Crossing behind the main sitting room, fingers once more trailing along the numb-feeling walls, her eyes touched as she passed on familiar sights. Spike’s prized, beat-up and lovingly-restored secondhand record player, there on the low shelving unit, with the stacks of huge LPs leaning against the open lid; the Ramones eponymous album displayed proudly at the front of the pack. At right-angles to it, against the wall, the wide entertainment center left behind by the previous inhabitant, now sporting a compact CD-player for her, a couple of Alternative and rah-rah girl-band albums scattered around it; the kind Spike used as fodder to tease her about her musical tastes, though she had caught him nodding along often enough when she played them. He certainly didn’t seem to mind in the slightest when they put her in the mood to dance.

Just saying. 

Next to the CD-player, the PlayStation Spike had borrowed, or stolen, or scrounged so that he could play that insane game with Dawn now lay defunct and gathering dust, because he wouldn’t play it without her. Buffy, who had tried to play it once or twice but found the myriad buttons on the controller baffling, had apparently proven a wildly disappointing competitor, though her guy had been kind enough to keep all commentary to himself. 

He’d also never asked her to play again. Just moped a little and put the thing away, never to be touched again. It was a sort of shrine now, she supposed, till Dawnie came back for a visit on break. 

Above the CDs and the videogame deal, of course, was the spot of high honor. The old TV they’d had at first had recently been replaced by a small flat-screen Spike had dug up from somewhere (as with the PlayStation, Buffy had never wanted to ask any questions on that one, even when he’d muttered something about a poker game). Across from the TV, dividing the room from their very small dining area (aka, a somewhat scarred oak table with decidedly un-matchy chairs in various states of repair and all with very different born-on dates), stood the low sofa where they spent a lot of time cuddling. Whenever, that was, she could get her guy to watch something that wasn’t incredibly irritating, like badly-dubbed reruns of _Dawson’s Creek_ with super-strange Spanish voice actors.

Frowning, Buffy looked out across the room, through the crack in the heavy curtains; out toward the beach before their home. Strangely, the brightness was so intense that… she couldn’t see outside. Couldn’t make out any details; even of their small porch with its couple of chaise lounge deals, or the little drinks table, or…

The room wavered a little, and damn. Maybe she’d been knocked over the head, or been poisoned. It was an alarming thought, but even her alarm felt muffled, as if it were wrapped in cotton. Before she could grab hold of it, it vanished. 

Somehow she found herself passing through the kitschy, beaded curtain Dawn had insisted they install after that idiotic _mercado_ trip that one day; the one that separated the living room from the hallway. Spike hated it, thought it was ‘bollocks’, but he’d left it up after Dawn departed because she’d loved it. The beads felt almost unreal as they passed over Buffy’s skin. Like they weren’t quite there. Buffy didn’t quite remember traveling through the rest of the short hall, like it too wasn’t even there; found herself poking her head in the bedroom door. Looked around without much hope. “Spike?”

No sign of him. The bed was neatly made—/Did I do that?/—and everything else was in its place. The vanity—another find by Spike, because he was the world’s best scrounger—stood in pride of place across from the foot of the bed with its standard ring of photos around the edges of the mirror, smiling at her. The personnel reflected therein had changed a little, a few pictures of the the Summers clan and the Scoobies rescued from pre-collapse Sunnydale now interspersed with a group photos of the 911 Response Cell. Of the group gathered around Dawn on her impromptu going-away party, of Spike, Maria, Jamal, Gris, and Rinne playing poker while Buffy attempted to bluff, badly, and Dawn and Tiny watched (taken by Dawn last November), and one very weird Christmas picture from that one demon bar, where Betta George had had one too many (because apparently fish could drink when they were demon-fish), and had ‘swam’ up onto their table… At which point it had made perfect sense for them to all to join in on decorating the inebriated fish with lights and ornaments taken from the back of the booth. After which, George had blown a bunch of bubbles just when they’d taken the shot, Dawn leaning over his finny back and waving wildly to shriek something completely bizarre about Christmas in the summer, because Spike had incurred Buffian wrath and snuck her a glass of wine in celebration of festivities, and ‘the Niblet’, too, had been a bit jolly. 

Shortly after that little event they had all left the bar, quite the worse for wear, and found themselves in the midst of a parade. And ran into a group of German tourists, who had joined the revelry wearing masks and carrying some kind of effigy of a figure called ‘Krampus’. Clearly a demon, with the huge horns and the hair and the teeth… The festive evening had altered swiftly to one of drunken action when when one of the celebrants had turned out to be an actual ‘krampus’, hidden among his followers, having been brought to life amongst the unsuspecting Spaniards through some nice, unwanted spellwork to feast on new blood far away from his alpine home. Cue the Christmas slayage. 

Krampy there hadn’t really wanted to do much talking. 

\--Technically, that was a perchten-- their drunken fish-friend had informed them after the fight, reeling slightly as he did so to bump against the nearest wall like an off-center blimp. --Krampus is their… lord or something? But the perchten are bad enough. Don’t really talk much…-- And he’d belched loudly. --Or think much.-- His ricochet off the wall led him to drift off into the parade, where some nearby revelers had seemed to take him as part of the décor; maybe a float or something. Someone had seized him by a trailing string of ornamentation and started carting him off like a drunken kite. --Good fighters, though-- he’d ‘called’ after them, sounding cheerful about his abrupt change in fortunes.

Locating their intoxicated friend had taken up most of the remainder of the evening.

Trailing wondering fingers over the photo, Buffy glanced into the mirror. And frowned, arrested. Why was her reflection… blurry?

None of this was making any sense, was it? /I have to find Spike. I have to…/ Where was he, anyway? She should be able to find him. After all, he was… Spike. She should be able to just… know where he was, right? She concentrated, reaching out with her blood. Grabbed hand over metaphorical hand on the lifeline of their mutual claim, feeling for him on the two-way umbilicus of bonding which joined their demon essences. 

And came up empty.

That was when she started to feel real panic.

***

**S:  
**  
It had been over two days. 

Two. Days.

Spike couldn’t rouse Buffy for anything. Increasingly desperate, he had tried shaking her, nuzzling her bite, shouting in her bloody ear. No response; not a goddamned twitch.

Even worse, he couldn’t _feel_ her.

That was the part that was throwing him into a serious panic. It was one thing for a Slayer to go into some kind of a trance-state, right? She was supposed to sodding do that on occasion. Maybe she was getting visions or the like? God knew he was used to that sort of thing, with Dru; had even sat through a few Buffy dreams that had turned a mite prophetic. 

But this…

She wasn’t waking. Was scarce breathing. And for her to be so far gone from him that he couldn’t even suss out from their blood-link whether she was in any kind of distress, whether she was calm, whether she needed anything physically— _anything_ —was making him more than a little frantic.

He should be able to feel at least enough to judge her physical needs. Instead he was reduced to playing things by ear. 

He tended to her as necessary, of course, and kept everyone else out while he did so in order to preserve her dignity. She wouldn’t even much like that _he’d_ had to see her like this, much less anyone else. And when he did let in the looky-loos amongst their concerned mates, he kept the visits strictly short. 

Tiny insisted on bringing in a hearty broth three times a day for Spike to dribble through his mate’s lips… and thank Christ at least she swallowed what was put there. It meant he could keep her hydrated, wouldn’t have to run her in to that little shitehole of a local hospital or summat. It would buy time for him to figure the rot out. 

He was going out of his mind with indecision, right buggered with it, because Christ knew Buffy had it in the human genes to have issues in the soddin’ gourd, and maybe he ought to just cart her over to hospital and have done with it… but this was all too sudden for that sort of thing, wasn’t it? 

Still, it struck fear into his heart to think of her going the way Joyce had. And yet, Buffy was just too bleedin’ indestructible for all that, wasn’t she? 

No. His instincts told him this was something else. That it had to be something supernatural in origin. A curse, or a hex, or something similar. Christ, the last time she’d been put under like this she’d been stabbed by that sodding Kashmas’nik and thought she was living another bleedin’ life, damn near killed Dawn and half the Scoobies in the haze of it all.

Not that she was doing much of anything right now aside from lying still and swallowing the occasional mouthful of broth. 

“Any news, Boss?”

Spike kept his back turned toward the voice at the door, fists clenched around the empty glass in one and nothing in the other. “Nothin’ so far, Rinne,” he answered, and was startled at the roughness he heard in his own voice.

“Anything I can do,” the chit offered quietly.

“Yeah.” 

After a moment’s silence, the viridian head popped back out again, leaving the door to close on the site of his defeat. 

Christ, he felt helpless. 

Despite the fact he’d been there for a whole buggerin’ lot of his life, Spike hated feeling powerless. Hated it more than anything. But there was fuck-all he could do. And there she lay; the love of his existence, wasting slowly away, while there wasn’t a sodding thing he could do to help her. He didn’t even have the beginnings of a bleeding clue what was wrong, much less what to do to fix it. Didn’t know who to go after, what to fight, who to kill…

She looked so pale and still, lying there, like she had that time after she’d fallen from…

His dead heart wrenched inside him, in that hollow place where he should feel her. / _NO_./

Crawling across the foot of the bed, site of so much vitality, so much life shared with him unreservedly, he laid his body alongside her—god, she even felt cool, lacked her usual burning heat—wrapped an arm around her waist. Buried his face in her neck and shoulder, his being in her scent, dragged her into himself. Tried to steep himself in her proximity, as if by doing so he could replace the feel of the claim currently lost between them, use it to feel his way hand-over-hand in the sourceless darkness till he might find whatever was blocking their linkage. Till he could feel it; whatever was wrong. Find the thing that was harming her, extricate it. Render her safe and his once more. “C’mon, Buffy. Christ, Love, come back to me. Tell me what to do.”

Being without the feel of her linked to him was like being left adrift, anchorless on a dark sea with a storm coming, and he couldn’t see a sodding thing, had no idea which way to turn the ship of his being to avoid a broadside in the tempest as might swamp him to drowning. It panicked him, made it impossible to think, to manage. 

He was fucking terrified. 

He had no idea how to be a singular being anymore. His blood wasn’t supposed to flow alone. He was a part of her. She was a part of him. He’d gotten used to the echo of her in his bones, in the being of him, in that which animated him and gave him life; as if it was her that filled him up and kept him moving in the world. Without her…

/Bloody Christ, Buffy; _please_./ 

She _had_ to come back. He had to have her inside him again. He couldn’t live without her. Not anymore, not after… /Don’t leave me alone. Not again. Not after all we’ve shared. You _promised_. I know I’ve done a shite job of keeping mine, but Christ, Buffy, please don’t go like this. I’ll do anything; fucking _anything_. Just don’t go gentle, yeah? _Fight_ with me? Whatever it is, grab onto me, tell me what you’re fighting, give me something to fight _with_ you…/

It had to be a spell. Nothing else made sense. And for the first time, Spike wished he was any good at magicks. Well, not for the first time. One other time he’d wanted to use magicks in the name of love, to win back Dru’s affections. Had never wanted to use them on Buffy, and wasn’t that sodding telling? He’d just wanted Dru any way he could get her, because he’d been that soft, but with Buffy he’d wanted to _earn_ it, wanted it to be _real_. Wouldn’t have used a spell on this one if Red had offered it to him with both hands held out. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it more than a little that one time the mad bint had done her bit of will-be-done on them and set Buffy to snogging his lips off for…

/Bloody hell. _Red_./

Why the fuck hadn’t he thought to sodding call Red before now? /Bleeding fuck, Spike, you’re the world’s biggest fucking lackwitted nit has ever been./ Sitting up and rubbing his eyes to clear away dampness he couldn’t afford, he shoved a shaking hand through his hair and fumbled on the nightstand for a long-forgotten cell-phone. Buffy’s phone. Flipped it open.

Thank Christ, it was still charged enough. 

He ran through the contacts at the speed of light, muttering imprecations at himself the whole while and calling himself every kind of fool. Of bloody _course_ the bint had to fall at the end of the sodding alphabet as well!

He found her at last, selected ‘Willow’ from the list, dialed her. And waited impatiently through any number of rings, abruptly terrified that the damn witch might be off trolling through dimensions again or some bloody thing, and mightn’t answer.

She did though, on about the fifth go-round. ‘Buffy?’ She sounded surprised as she answered, and worried. And harried, but Spike had no time to wonder why.

“S’not Buffy. Which is why I’m ringin’ you, Red...”

‘Spike?’ Red’s voice turned suspicious, and even a little impatient. ‘Now’s not a good time. We’re being attacked by a bunch of zombies in kilts right now…’

He didn’t bleeding care if they were being attacked by the whole sodding Highland Regiment. “You listen to me. You need to get here, and you need to get here now. Use one of your bloody portals or whatever, but do it yesterday. Somethin’s got Buffy, and nothin’ I can do’ll wake her.”

‘Wait, what?’

“She’s been out for days. I can’t wake her up, and I can’t _feel_ her. I’m pretty sure she’s under some sort of buggerin’ spell. She needs you, Red. Whatever’s happenin’ up there, they’re gonna have to do without you for a mo’.”

To her credit, Willow didn’t hesitate. ‘Clear whatever room you’re in, Spike, and give me a minute to home in on you. I’m coming.’

***

**B:  
**  
The bathroom was also echoingly empty, of everything but the necklace Dawn had sent her for her birthday last month. Buffy stopped to finger the long, lovely chain and the little dark stone pendant with the incised marks. Dawn had enclosed a note when she’d sent it—originally on a leather thong with a few cheap, dark blue beads scattered around it—saying that she had seen the bit of jewelry at a student booth at some event shortly after her return to campus and bought it on a whim because it reminded her of Spain, but then she’d chosen to send it over as a birthday present because she’d randomly decided it reminded her more of her sister thereafter. 

The stylized engraving on the stone suggested relaxed ocean waves, a sun setting in them, its waving arms quenched by water, long rays lighting the sea, a crescent moon slipping out from behind the left side of the sun as it sank.

Buffy had adored the pendant from the moment she first saw it. It was, after all, very symbolic of her life right now, and honestly, she hadn’t understood how Dawn had been so damned instinctive about her gifting. Having been used to wearing necklaces just out of self-protective habit—simply good practice, for a Slayer—she hadn’t, of course, worn one regularly, and certainly not a cross, since she’d first begun sleeping with Spike all those years ago. Just a stupid idea in general, though once upon a time in her more self-conscious days she had used to wonder if her friends would notice, ask her why the sudden change. The idea had terrified her, and she had come up with dozens of cover stories for why she had switched to other necklaces instead; pendants with protective stones and amulets and the sort, purchased from the Magic Box because Anya said they were good for that sort of thing, or because Willow or Tara thought they might be more broadly useful in a demon-y sense than the very narrow ‘vampires, crosses’ thing. 

That, actually, had been her cover story. That she was diversifying, and why should she wear stuff that repelled only one kind of demon? Lame, of course, but no one had asked. Of course—and not exactly subconsciously, considering—she hadn’t exactly picked the most lethal ones, in general. At worst, one time Spike had poked at one of them, a greenish one, mid-assignation, then prodded it over her shoulder before it could brush him anymore. _“What?”_ she’d asked, trying to sound innocent.

_“Nothing. Stings a bit is all. Prefer if you kept it away from me, yeah?”_

She’d started to move away, because she’d always been kind of a bitch to him _. “If you’d rather I go back to the old standard crucifix…”_

That had pissed him off, and he’d flipped her, fast and hard, drilling into her with furious body and burning eyes, and… Well. Nothing had ever been easy between them back then; especially finding middle-ground between what she was and what he was and what they had both so desperately wanted. /Which was and is each other, despite… everything else./

Thing was, when you were so used to wearing necklaces as life-saving prophylactics and tools of your trade, breaking the habit was hard. She felt naked anymore without them. Which was why this necklace Dawn had sent her was so damned perfect. So symbolic of… everything. 

Shortly after she’d received it, while they were in bed, Spike had lifted a hand to touch the dangling stone. Brushed his fingers lightly over the cheap, beautiful thing, lifted a brow. _“Like this one, pet,”_ he’d said simply. And when she’d merely caressed his face, his brows, his cheeks, he'd lunged up to take her mouth, hungry and wondering. 

The next day, he’d brought her the intricately interlinked silver chain that now held the pendant.

/We can meet in the middle now. All the time. And no one hurts./ 

So. She had seldom taken it off since it had come in the mail, but the other day she’d removed it in the shower because it had kept bumping Spike in the nose during… things, and she’d forgotten to put it back on.

Well. Necklace, check. Still no Spike, though. Not that she had expected to find him in here anyway. Sliding her fingers slowly down the chain, she trailed them over the edges of the pendant, then lifted it and placed it back over her neck before turning to leave the room. And frowned when the weight of the small, heavy stone vanished from her breastbone. Turned, blinked. It was back there, hanging on the mirror again. 

/What the hell?/

She reached out again, intending to put it on and keep hold of it this time, but before she had a chance to do so, she heard a deafening roar from what sounded like the living room. 

Abandoning the necklace, she dashed out of the bathroom and down the short hall, through the stupid beaded curtain, and ran pretty much smack into a huge wall of a demon. The kind that didn’t seem interested in pre-fight negotiation. Especially considering the first thing it did was swing a fistful of huge claws her way and try to take her head off. 

_Skip back, block._ “I don’t suppose we can talk about this?”

Another swing, this time accompanied by the kind of snarl that made skin crawl and instincts sit up and take notice. The fight or _fight_ part of her woke up and wouldn’t shut up, screaming about how it was time to cowgirl up and start the whole ‘kill or be killed, so kill it first, dammit’ thing. She caught the third swing and tried to give her own inner demon a stern talking to. Maybe this guy just hadn’t had its coffee yet this morning? “Can you even talk? It would help.” /What would really help is if I could recognize your species. Not that that always means anything to me, but.../

Fourth swing. More snarling. Apparently not so much with the talky. “Not even in non-English?" she tried again. _"Habla Espanol?”_ A six-inch claw just missed her temple. “Fine, you don’t _habla_. _Parlez vous Francais?”_ She had to block a pretty impressive attempt to run her through with another power-nail, and seriously, was this thing _made_ of claws? “Sure. Fine. You didn’t seem French to me either. Not very cultured. _Parli Italiano?_ Though I guess probably not, since those guys usually just send someone with a gun, or a bomb, family-style, and I can’t remember the last time I pissed them off.” She ducked a swipe at her left eye, swiftly running out of options. Remembered something she’d heard Spike say once in his sleep. _“Gr’et-ut’Fyarl-nahk’?”_

A flicker of something that might have been recognition lit the creature’s eye, if only briefly, and Buffy almost crowed in relief. Not that it would have been of any use anyway, since that little phrase pretty much exhausted her entire store of Fyarl. However, apparently this brief halt in hostilities was only due to the fact that she was attempting to use demon speech of any kind, because the thing came at her again after that with renewed determination.

Maybe Fyarls were, like, a hereditary enemy and she’d just insulted its grandmother or something. “Fine. I guess that concludes negotiations. Sucks, too, because this means now I’m gonna have to kill you. But don’t say I didn’t give you a chance, alright?” She stopped with the defensive moves, cut loose with a serious flurry of hardcore offensive tactics ending in a dive-roll-highkick-lowblock-crosspunch-to-armhold-to-headlock-backbreaker combo that she’d perfected just last week in a sparring session with Spike; one he’d told her afterward, in bed, glowingly, was ‘impossible to block, fucking perfect, Christ pet, where do you come up with this shite?’

Unfortunately, it was apparently possible to block it when you were armed with about nineteen razor-sharp, eight-inch or whatever claws. The whole system broke down in the armhold section of things. Which was when she found herself against a wall… with one of those claws driving through her wrist to pin her there like she was being crucified.

She hadn’t felt anything that had hurt like that in a very long time. Until the second one went in, on the other side.

And then the fucking thing started breathing _fire_.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Quote from my Guru of Love, Ed Kowalczyk, lead singer of LIVE. Someday I will have his lyrics tattooed over literally every square inch of my body. He is a prophet. He wrote the above lyric when he was eighteen. EIGHTEEN. Dammit, when I was eighteen all I did was obsessively watch _General Hospital._  
  
Ahem. Anyway.   
  
Here we go; off and running with my version of some canonical events. Let's see where they take us! See you again soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the welcome the first chapter of this garnered! 
> 
> So, some of what happens in this chapter is totally canon, if removed to a different physical location. Thus, in the comics these events worked for a moment as this MASSIVE red herring for us Spuffians, who probably thought for a second that Joss and co were FINALLY bringing the Spuffy back (which is, btw, just plain freaking cruel). It also NEVER explained why they had certain people saying certain things (aside from just screwing with our heads like jerks, because they like to do that to us while later catering to Bangel Yet Again)... but I'm gonna roll with it because it's what I had to work with, and also because it gives me weird subconscious stuff to use with characters not currently 'on screen'. So... in summary, bear with me when things sound briefly Very Odd.

**S:  
**

‘I’m telling you, Spike, you’re gonna have to give me more to go on! If I can’t use her as a homing signal, I can’t find her to portal in. And you’re technically dead, so I can’t use you as a focus. Which means you’re going to have to unbend and tell me where you are on the map so I can portal in a little closer and come in from there, or I’m not gonna get there in time.’

Spike closed his eyes, rubbed between them with the corner of the damned phone. Glanced over at Buffy’s body, next to where he knelt on the bed. Something was going wrong. He could feel it. Not that anything had changed; not visibly, but her eyes—the only thing that had moved the entire bloody time—were now swinging around wildly behind her lids as if she were trapped in some kind of nightmare, and he could swear she had… tensed somehow, gone rigid. Her body was no longer lax, her heartbeat had sped up just a little… And Christ, if he could just _feel_ her!

Something broke inside him. She was in trouble. He knew it. And there was nothing else he could do to help. /Fucking bloody Fuck./ So much for having a secret location for their damned 911 cell. “Bloody alright,” he snapped. “We’re outside Almerimar. It’s a bit to the southeast of Granada on the coast, just to the west of Roquetas de Mar…”

‘I’ll find it on the map.’

A competing panic filled him to the throat. “Christ; don’t look on the big computers, or all the Bits’ll know…” 

‘For Goddess’ sake, Spike, who are you talking to? I have my own laptop. I use a secure connection. No one’s going to find your little hideaway! Now shut up and let me concentrate!’

He shut it and waited, feeling like he was being torn in two, while tapping noises ensued. He heard an ‘Oh!’ from the other end of the line, then what sounded like brief, background chanting. Closing his eyes, he ceased breathing and hoped like hell he wouldn’t regret this as for a moment, the connection between his phone and the witch’s went a bit fuzzy. Then Red was back on the line, her voice sounding quite a bit stronger. ‘Hey. Nice town.’

“Yeah, it’s a right gem. Can you find us now?” Last time his ruddy stomach had felt like this, he’d not had blood in damn near a month. Fuck, what if…

Then his eyes trailed over to Buffy, lying still beside him on the bed, and he found her chilled hand with his. Closed his eyes and gripped it, firm if gently. /Nothing else matters. We can relocate. Long as she’s safe./ “Red?”

‘Yeah.’ The slow reply relaxed something in him that he hadn’t realized was petrified till that moment. ‘Goddess, she’s diffuse. It’s almost like… she’s barely attached to her body. Like someone’s taken her so far astral that the umbilicus to her physical being is terminally strained. I’m feeling her all over; in places that have nothing to do with here. She’s stretched out to the west—far to the west—a little to the south…’ A short silence. ‘This close, I can feel the source, though.” A short pause. “Is the room clear?’

Spike bit the words off grimly. “No one else in here but us.”

‘Alright. I’m on my way.’

“About sodding time.”

***

**B:  
**  
The weird thing about being on fire was, she almost felt… glad? Like she finally got to know what it had been like, for Spike. Was that twisted? 

Also, there was something super recognizable and familiar about this demon. What the heck? “Do I know you?” she asked it. Which was a really, really dumb thing to ask a huge claw-demon when it was currently breathing fire at you. And shouldn’t she be gasping, or…

Shouldn’t this _hurt_ more? Like, yeah, it hurt a lot… but to be real, she’d hurt worse. Falling off of Glory’s stupid tower into that plasma inferno of merging dimensions? That had hurt worse than this. Coming _back_ had hurt worse than this. And yes, every inch of her was sizzling, and it sucked, and she wanted to scream… but burning alive really should be so painful she couldn’t think at all, right? Couldn’t notice anything else, and yet meanwhile she was actually totally with the noticing other things, because right now, over the shoulder of the demon she could swear she could see, through the wavering haze of flame, a figure in a duster and a red shirt, holding out his hand. 

“Spike!” she exclaimed.

“My Love…” the figure called, beckoning. 

It was all she needed, and she shoved the fire-breathing demon off of her like it was Gumby. It hit the floor and crumbled to ash as she dashed to Spike, grabbed the duster, swung him around…

The face above the duster wasn’t Spike. It was Ethan Rayne.

Buffy reeled back, horrified and disgusted. Maybe even a little thrown off her game. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I don’t know,” the old magician told her suavely. “You tell me. This is your dreamscape. We both seem to be trapped here.”

_“Dreamscape?_ What…”

He nodded down at her body, bushy brows raised pointedly. Following his gaze, she noticed that her clothes were no longer burnt, nothing on her was singed. /Wha…/ She next inspected her wrists, found there were no more holes there, no more blood, there was no more pain, and just… /Really. What?/

“Rather, a conglomeration of all your possible dreams, I should think. Though, how I came to be invited is rather interesting, isn’t it?” The creepy old mage tilted his head slightly, a roguish smile coming to thin lips. “I remind you of someone, do you think?”

/Okay, you know what?/ “Get out of here!”

“Oh, I do wish I could, young woman, but unfortunately I believe I’m as trapped here as you are until we find our way out. Shall we?” And he held out an arm in some sort of gross, courtly gesture, and ew, did he have to have that disgusting magnetism like that? 

Okay, maybe he did remind her of someone. Sort of. 

But it was only the duster. 

***

**S:  
**  
Red stared down at Buffy’s still form on the bed, completely ignoring Spike’s tense pacing. She seemed lost in thought, or maybe meditation, and this was taking too bloody long. /You can either fix her or you can’t, you mad bint. Now, _do_ something!/

After some interminable period of useless silence the witch lifted her eyes to regard Spike thoughtfully. “How long has she been like this?”

“I dunno. Better part of three days by now. Or, well, this is the third. Two-and-a-half, really, but…”

All calm fled. “She’s been trapped in a dream-state for two-and-half _days_ and you didn’t _call_ me?”

Well, that was just a bit rich, wasn’t it? “You haven’t exactly been first on the speed-dial for a bit, Red. Didn’t think of it till just now, innit, as you’ve been a bit incommunicado till…”

“I’ve been _communicado,”_ Willow snapped sharply, “for five _months_.”

“Ever so bloody sorry, dammit. We’ve gotten used to dealing with things on our sodding own, and gettin’ on without you!”

Red swung away, looking stricken. “You should’ve called right away,” she whispered, sounding broken. “If it was you, _Buffy_ would’ve called me.”

Spike didn’t answer. Not aloud, any road. Inside, though, he protested a bit, as he felt somewhat certain Buffy might have hesitated, at least a little. After all, neither of them were entirely sure what the witch’s opinion was on their renewed relationship, for one. “Look, is there anything you can do about it?”

Red frowned. Walked around the bed a little. Drew closer. And then with a sigh, she lifted her hands over Buffy’s still form. “If those friends of yours insist on watching, can you get them to just keep their energy out of the space? Make them stay in the doorway or something, okay?”

Spike turned his head, startled, and saw Gris, Rinne, Maria, and Tiny, all lined up outside the door with their heads atop one another like a bit from the Marx Brothers. He had half a mind to tell them to be off, but he knew they loved Buffy too, so he just jerked his head a little. “Stand back. Give the witch a bit of room, yeah?” It came out gruff, but only because he was anxious as hell.

The power was already starting to fly. Willow’s hair was floating, ozone beginning to crackle. And the glow went up about her; white first, then flickering a little with plum-colored snaps like lightning. “It’s something Dark,” she echoed from within the lightshow. “Someone’s doing this. Someone from… West of here…” Her face glowed with augmented energies. 

“Can you break it?” Spike demanded. He wanted results, dammit, not a bleeding weather report!

“Gotta figure out where it’s coming from first.” The witch’s voice was calm, now, emotionless. “Give me a minute.” The power swelled, light now reflecting blindingly from the bedroom walls and leaving afterimages on Spike’s eyeballs of wall-hangings from the _mercado_ , a couple of photographs, that ridiculous hat Buffy had insisted on buying that day back in October that somehow managed to look cute on her because _everything_ looked good on her...

His dead heart clenched. Twisted.

The light brightened to the point things in the room started to white out. “I’m closer now. Closer…”

From outside the doorway he heard Gris comment, _“Ai! Mira a mami chula!_ _”*_

“Damn straight!” Rinne answered lustfully.

The exclamations drew Spike’s attention briefly, and he blinked away from the blinding supernatural glare toward the relief of the bedroom door. Maria had drawn back, arm thrown over her eyes. Tiny as well. The sisters remained, however, and were staring in clear, mirrored desire at the glowing witch, a state which confirmed a few things for Spike he had long-suspected but had never bothered to poke at. To wit, not a few of his girls didn’t mind one single damn who they played with as long as the other party was fun, willing, and had a hook. 

Red was garnering some admirers from this lot.

He supposed he couldn’t blame them. He’d found her a sweet piece himself, once, before the addiction. He wasn’t much interested anymore, as he’d had enough of controlling sorts in his life to find that kind of thing wildly unattractive, but he understood the allure of her heady power.

After all, he’d walked the knife edge of power and abuse as well, and not all that long ago. 

Turning back to the nova, he focused on the way the light limned his love, and prayed to anything left in the universe that might listen to a reformed demon. /You know she’s still on Your side, damn You, so _help_ her!/ 

Something started to coalesce inside the light. Then it shuddered. And Red staggered as another portal opened in the room, and some bint Spike wasn’t sure he recognized stepped through. Reddish-blonde, bit tall, with a shrewish sort of face. She had a hand held out, aimed at Red. “Back off, Willow. This isn’t your business.”

“Amy.” The name was spat with flat and grim certitude. 

/Oh, bloody hell./ This was the bint who’d first started Red down the road to the Dark Magicks, wasn’t it? And had gotten her on the line with Rack and that? Bitch and a half, then. 

Spike started for her. And stopped dead when the hand not opened toward Red rose, suspended over Buffy’s still form. In that fist was held a long, wicked-looking fucking dagger.

The growl rose instantly in his throat, burst out of him to resound throughout the chamber. “Oh, you’re _dead_ , witch.”

The whore didn’t even throw him a glance. “This the vamp who’s so hot for her?” she asked conversationally.

“It’s gone a bit further than that,” Red answered blandly, hand outstretched. In it lay a ball of energy the size of a bloody football, roiling quietly and crackling a bit here and there. “They’re a pretty serious couple. Not to mention I’m pretty sure they’re doing the whole blood-sharing thing, so if you don’t want an insane vampire ready to tear you limb from limb and suck your throat out through your eye-sockets, you should probably drop the knife.”

Just the thought made Spike’s inner reveler tremble with suppressed glee, and, /Hell, Red, that was sodding _poetry_./

Their visiting witch seemed unimpressed by this threat. “Oh, Willow, Willow, Willow,” she scoffed. “You have no idea what I’m capable of anymore. None of you can take me down.”

Red never even altered tone. “In the words of an old friend, I’d like to test that theory.” Suiting action to words, she drew back and threw her little ball of energies.

Thus began, in earnest, a rather serious sodding magicks duel. Spike spent much of it dodging the side-effects and the shocks which sailed wide round the room, catching all that might be in their paths. Course, Buffy couldn’t dodge the fucking things, being as she was immobilized on the buggering bed, and in the end Spike climbed right over the top of her and laid down, reasoning that at least whatever might hit her would possibly be absorbed first by yours truly. 

Any road, at least the sodding dagger was pointing elsewhere at the mo’. 

The battle raged on about the room. Sizzling energies crackled, knocking shit off the walls and leaving burnt trails in the stucco. The lusting fucking bints in the doorway kept drawing back, he noticed, heads popping in and ducking out, but they never closed the thing all the way, watching the entire time in awe. Madwomen. He wanted to be anywhere else, wanted _Buffy_ anywhere else, the way the arcane lightning zigzagged over his head, lifting his shorthairs and tightening the top of his skull with tension and a sensation he had no problem admitting was made up of about nine-tenths fear.

Subjectively, the battle seemed to go on for just about forever, with the slag taunting Red about her use of Dark Magicks and all that rot, and Red loftily ignoring her prodding to remind her that she had access to both and was easily holding her own against whatever backing the bitch had brought. He had to give credit where it was due; Red had a point. This Amy scrubber had brought some serious, borrowed firepower with her, but Red, doing it all on her own, wasn’t flagging in the slightest.

However. One of the times Spike looked up he noted that the bitch Amy was circling back toward the bed, Red following her in a wide circuit so that they were, of all fucking things, throwing the goddamned magicks across the thing, right over the top of him and Buffy. “Get out of it!” he roared at Red, huddling over his love’s still form. “One of you hits her instead and I’ll sodding drain you both!”

Red spared him a brief, startled glance. At which point, taking advantage of the distraction, the other bint sent a barrage out over his head that made him duck into Buffy’s immobile throat, forcing Red to focus to keep from dying, and just, bloody hell. Somehow, that volley caught a chink in Red’s armor—probably his fault, actually—and she was briefly trapped in some sort of odd, viridescent bubble. /Fuck!/

“Oh, you’re going to regret that, Amy.”

“You think so?” The bitch was over the top of him again, dagger out… and all the sudden Spike had his hands full as he leaned up away and fought to keep the sodding thing away from Buffy, and why the hell wasn’t the bitch using magicks to immobilize him? 

His eyes flickered to Red, saw that Amy’s unoccupied hand was still open, still pointed at her magickal foe, and thank Christ, he’d been saved by the bitch’s need to keep Red under wraps. He could definitely take the slapper in single combat. 

Except… she had him stymied somehow, their hands frozen in the air above Buffy’s body, and bloody buggering hell, she was a strong bitch. Must be augmenting herself with her power somehow. He couldn’t quite get an edge over her in the struggle, when Christ knew he shouldn’t have a problem at all. She was a human, not even anything special, which meant arm-wrestling wasn’t in it. This was supernatural.

“Give it up, vampire. I don’t care if you’re feeding on a Slayer. You’re just a mutt. I have powers you can’t comprehend. I’m going to kill her in front of you; slowly, in her sleep. Then I’m going to kill you. And I’ll laugh while I do it.”

Something snapped in Spike, and whatever was left in him of William retreated, went silent for the moment. The part of himself that only surged to the fore anymore in mating and in deadly combat exploded outward, and he was up off of Buffy and lunging in full game face, snarls echoing through the room. He hadn’t drained a healthy human being dry in years, but he for sodding sure wouldn’t mind doing this one in. He mightn’t even feel sad about it when his nancy other half came treading back in next week. 

The blade skittered off of his chest, missing his heart, as if it mattered, to skewer his left bicep. He didn’t even feel the buggering thing, he was so far gone. Had the bitch by the throat and against the wall and was strangling the life out of her. As the breath slowed in her airways and the fierce scents of triumph turned to an abrupt sweat of terror he leaned in close to her face. He wanted this one to know what was coming. “I’m going to turn you into a husk, you manky whore. Let Red string you up on her wall as a Lughnassadh corn-dollie.”

“I’d like that,” Red murmured from behind him. Hell. Still immobilized in her bubble. Well, he’d manage. Leaned in closer, sniffing, as the blood beneath his hands rushed faster in dread, as the perking adrenaline turned from fight to flight. Slapper smelled of earth, of caverns, of old blood, metal and antiseptic, of magicks… and of _fear_. The old ambrosia. 

Something hungry shivered through him; an old and potent, near-forgotten and heady brew which he had willfully forced himself to put to the back of recall, because to remember would be to seek temptation, and to remain with Buffy was to put it out of mind forever. But this time… Just this _once_ , he would be a hunter again, and not the abused wolf tamed by free affection to await his meals given by a loving hand. 

Just this once, he would _take_. “You smell…” he heard himself growl-whisper, “like you came here to die.”

The superior light in the slag’s eyes faded to something petrified. “You won’t,” she breathed. “You can’t! You’ve been ensouled! Your conscience won’t let you…”

He was going to _eat_ this one. Everything in him shuddered with near-orgasmic need at the thought, and his prick rose as he lowered his head. Hadn’t had a taste in so long. From donors, yes; but from one who knew… this was it? From one where he wouldn’t have to stop; from one where he could go all the way to the sweet end, taste the final flutters, the strongest flavors of struggle and the most potent remains of oxygen and life, and have his _fill!_

And Christ; this one would be fucking _righteous_. “You,” he informed her grimly, “don’t fucking know what I will do when you threaten my mate, you unbelievable sodding minger.” And he nodded toward Willow without lifting his eyes. “Ready for your decoration, Red?”

“You give the nicest gifts.” The magicks-induced monotone still managed to sound… pleased. 

Skin prickling with gooseflesh, Spike dipped his mouth to the pounding artery beneath his thumb.

Eyes wide with terror, Amy shifted. And something hit him, hard as a blow from his Slayer, directly in center mass; had him on his back. And it was so like something Buffy would do if she’d caught him off his trolley and feeding that he stared wildly about himself for a moment, a confused and wild hope flooding him. /You’re back, Love?/

But no. She lay there still, on their bed, unmoving. /So, what…/

His eyes darted back to the slapper at the wall; saw her hand descend from a spot crossed defensively before her chest to guard briefly against him, then swing back on Red, eyes darting wildly from one threat to another, and, ah. Life threatened, instinct had taken over. She had automatically pulled her magicks from Red to turn them on him. 

He shook his head, willed his prick down and himself back into action, but it was tough to switch gears. Much like _coitus interruptus,_ this abrupt comedown when he had been about to have, for the first time since The fucking First—and that under goddamned hypnosis—a full, live, uninterrupted and guiltless feed. 

If he were to be honest with himself, he was more than a tad disappointed, damnitall. Christ, he had wanted it.

Now that he was down, the scrubber was torn. She’d gone back to rescue her hold on Red, but she had to guard against him as well… and in the interim, her spell on her rival had stuttered.

Well. Best at least keep her off-balance. He pushed himself back to his feet… and was abruptly knocked back arse over teakettle by something that felt like a keg of TNT exploding near to hand. Had he human eardrums, they’d have burst, and fuck, what would that do to _Buffy?_

He was up again and dodging for her without thought, smelling for blood and wondering what the _fuck_ …

As he dove for the bed he saw from the corner of his eye that Red was moving again. His feeding distraction must have been just enough for her to break her binding. “You’re an idiot, Amy,” the girl told their visitor grimly, advancing. “You gave me enough information to take you down.”

Spike left them to it, absorbed in checking over his motionless love and grateful as the battle came to its denouement to smell no blood. /Thank you. Sodding Slayer strength, bloody hell yes!/ And knew in that moment that no matter how disappointed he might feel to have missed his chance at a kill, he would trade nothing. Buffy was alive and whole, and that was…

“What the hell are you talking about, Willow? You’re doing the exact same… Wait! What are you…”

Alarm rang through the room; a counterpoint to Red’s continued calm deadpan. “You see, Amy, you gave me time to absorb your magicks. Decode them. Now I know everything. Where you’re getting the power from, everything you’re doing… So, thanks. Buhbye…” And the slapper’s voice cut off abruptly as, with a loud _thunk_ , she dropped to the floor.

Bound in cables of power.

“Well,” Red murmured then, turning to Spike and Buffy, and her voice was as suddenly back to normal. Her being had drained to its standard coloration. “That was bracing. You two okay?”

Spike restrained himself from strangling Red in turn, since her offhand tone was putting his back up fairly thoroughly at the mo’. “Bit edgy, actually, since I didn’t get my mouthful, and Buffy’s still lyin’ here unchanged. So if you don’t mind, since you seem to know what the bitch’s all about now…”

“Oh. Sure. Yeah. Sorry. Just, hang on a sec, okay?” And to his stunned amazement Red turned from him and cast another portal in his sodding bedroom, just in front of the curtained window to the sea; which, thank Christ, hadn’t been burnt off, or he’d be dust right now. Through the new doorway Spike could see a slice of the castle courtyard they’d left back in Scotland last summer. If he squinted aright he thought he could catch a glimpse of what looked like dozens of kilted figures scrambling down inside the walls, fighting demoralized Slayers right and left and getting right back up again each time one fell… and bloody hell. He supposed that was a fair proper assault after all. “Have to take care of something real quick.” And a jolt of power shot from her hands, through the opening.

All the kilted figures on the other side of the portal started to dance like they were at a sodding ball, or were subject to the bloody St. Vitus… then abruptly collapsed as if they had been marionettes and had their strings cut.

“You bitch,” Amy snarled from the floor.

Red waved one hand, and the cursing from the floor cut off as if the visiting witch were a radio. Magickal gag. Too right. 

Red turned calmly back to Spike. “That should take care of things for a second. I’ll call Xander through as soon as they get settled over there.” Stepping a little closer to the bed, she tilted her head at Buffy, and a slight smile touched her lips. “So. This is really gonna piss you off, Spike, but it’s actually really easy to wake her up. I think Amy read too many cheesy fairytales growing up. Not that we all didn’t, but…” Her eyes cut briefly away to the bound woman on the floor, struggling uselessly and shrieking muffled vituperations. “Let’s just say that whatever her love life looks like right now, I don’t think it’s large with the romance. So.” Bringing her gaze back, she pointed with her chin. “To wake her up, just kiss her.”

Spike stared, flummoxed and disbelieving. “You’re sodding joking.”

“No. Completely serious.” Red wore a strange little smile. “I mean, it needs to be ‘the kiss of true love’ and all that crap, but since I think you have that covered…”

Spike stared down at the slapper writhing on the floor, back at Red. He was at a loss for words. Of all the sodding _juvenile_ …

“I know. Living vicariously, much?”

/Christfuck, if I’d just kissed her any time in the last couple of days, none of this shite would’ve ever…/

/Fuck!/

Willow shook her head, amusement fading to a grim smirk. “Just do it, Spike. Or do you need me to turn my back?”

He rolled his eyes at her, turned another brief glare at the witch on the floor. “Can I still drain the bitch after?”

That brought the twitch of dark amusement back to Red’s eyes. “If you don’t mind doing it while Buffy’s watching.”

/Hell, I might still. Fucking slag./ Leaning over, Spike stroked Buffy’s cheek, cupped her face. /This better work, you know? You’d better come back to me. You’re the center of my universe an’ all. Meaning of my existence, so if you don’t, I’m gonna have to…/ He struggled in vain to think of a suitable threat. /…Drain that bitch down there and then… run amok and do terrible, vicious, demonic things, and lay waste to the world, and…/ All of his parts were there, back with him, hovering in terrible hopeless anticipation so that he closed his eyes briefly, forehead against Buffy’s. “C’mon, Love,” he heard himself whisper. “Please.” And then, slipping down, laid one on his love. 

And moved away slightly, unbreathing, to wait.

***

**B:  
**  
This was the weirdest dream ever. It for sure wasn’t like any Slayer dream Buffy had ever had. 

Firstly, who dreamed of walking through a giant rat-cage? The tubes were filthy inside, for one. They stank, secondly. And three, they were a literal maze. 

And what was with the triple-Xs everywhere? Was something supposed to be x-rated about this rat-symbolism?

“Twilight is falling,” Ethan told her conversationally.

“Yeah, sure,” Buffy answered, seriously bored by now. She had a question brewing; a serious one, one that was driving her nuts, but she didn’t want to ask it. If she did, she felt sure she would regret it.

Maybe it was just a weird dream-thing.

“Something about my presence is bothering you.” He sounded amused by the fact. 

/Alright, dammit./ 

It came out in a hissed rush. “Why are you dressed like Spike? Why did you… _say_ that to me, when I first saw you?”

Her demand brought a smug smirk to the thin lips. “This is how I’ve _always_ dressed, my dear.” And he tilted his head slightly in a way that unnerved her. “Perhaps a little less… flashy than at other times, but…” He spread his hands a little. “One cannot wear shining polyester at every moment, you know.”

Buffy turned away, unaccountably incensed, and definitely thrown. Stalked ahead of the man a bit, feeling shaken, off-balance. 

“Who is Spike, one might ask?”

A defensive rage rose in her. “None of your damn business. Let’s just get through this stupid gauntlet and find our way out of here.”

Ethan caught up to her swiftly, as unfortunately his legs were longer than hers. “I rather doubt there is an end; at least until the dream itself ends.” He looked around them at the now-orange tubing. “It does seem to be attempting to tell you something, yes?”

/Just shut up./

“As to the other question… I can’t say. It just seemed appropriate at the time. Though, being as how this is _your_ dream…” 

“The other quest… Oh.” She bit her lip and swung away, having half-turned back to him. /It’s a dream, Buffy. It’s all a dream. It’s just insanity is all. It’s not supposed to make sense!/

She struck out again, wanting to get as far as possible from an Ethan Rayne who dressed like Spike and had some unknown dream-agenda; at least until she could figure this thing out. 

“Is ‘Spike’, by any chance, the vampire with whom you are keeping company?”

/How did you…/ Was he just a figment, a part of the landscape? She didn’t think so, because why the heck would she dream of Ethan Rayne? She hadn’t thought of this jerk in years! No; he had to be coming from somewhere outside. 

If so, was he watching her somehow? Had he looked into her mind? Seen her yearning for Spike somehow, written across the dreamscape, and was now using it against her?

/Oh, _hell_ no./ She whirled again. “How about we just don’t make conversation while we’re stuck with each other?”

The long-fingered hands shot up in an approximation of surrender, though his eyebrows raised in yet another smirky sort of knowing look. “Oh, by all means, young woman. Do carry on. I’ll simply trail behind you, minding my own.”

He was really, really irritating. That much hadn’t changed, dream-Ethan or not.

They wandered through another turn in the long loop of smelly tubing, went in silence from transparent orangeish light to greenish, then reddish-pinkish. The not-talking was a nice break. 

But of course it couldn’t last. “So,” Ethan picked up again, because he just would not shut up, “how has _Ripper_ been?” 

He said it with a strange, almost… thick air, as if there were layers of meaning and history buried under the simple question, and this might be a bizarre dream, but Buffy just really did not have the time or the patience to figure out any of Ethan Rayne’s games.

It did seem, however, that she was going to have to indulge in stupid conversation with the jerk, since he really wasn’t going to stop yakking at her. “He’s great,” she answered flatly. “Just doing his same old Giles thing. Training Slayers and reading books and knowing things.” /Whether he _tells_ you about them or not is totally a crapshoot, but he _knows_ them. Oh, yeah. He sure knows ‘em./

A faint grunt of a laugh echoed in the tube around them. Ethan sounded really, way too amused for the few words she’d spoken. “The Slayer sounds disgruntled. Has Rupert been a _bad_ boy?” 

Again with the weird lilt to his voice, and did the guy always have to talk about Giles like he was just lusting for him to come back to the dark side? He was practically tasting the words. “Giles has been… Giles.” She even did her best to sound neutral. No reason to give even a dream-Ethan any fodder for his games. If he thought she and Giles had had a falling-out…

“Ah. Pity.” Those few syllables were filled with enormous regret, couched on a sort of breezy dismissal, and jeez, this guy really had a thing for past history. “So.” And the voice, the step became jaunty again, echoing hollowly through the tubing as they passed next from red to yellow. “If Rupert is being very, very Giles now, I imagine he has reacted with all possible disdain to your romantic relationship with this gentleman of the night.”

Her head jerked around, and she stared at the tall, hollow-cheeked figure in no small shock. “Seriously? How is that even a _little_ bit any of your business?”

The citrine light made his skin look sallow, washed out, and highlighted the relief of his excessive cheekbones. His mouth twisted in sardonic amusement. “Of course he has. Wouldn’t want you to suspect the truth.” The bastard took advantage of her momentary lull to strike off ahead of her, looking smug as hell. “You’d be amazed at the demonic sorts young Ripper thought to dally with in his younger days...”

/Wait, what?/

/No./ Half of her wanted to tell him off. To avoid listening in case it was all some kind of ploy to drive an even deeper wedge between herself and her ex-Watcher. The other half desperately wanted to grab the gross, skanky dude by his lapels, throw him up against the nearest curved wall of tubing and demand a tell-all accounting of Giles’ sordid, teenaged past. Because if all of his issues with her and Spike were some super double-standard-y thing, then… “You’re lying. There was the thing with Eyghon, but other than that…”

Ethan stopped dead ahead of her and turned his head back to regard her over his shoulder. “Oh, that all he ever told you?” And his lips twitched slightly in clear amusement. “Oh, Ripper, Ripper, Ripper. Reading the girl the riot act for going after your _exact_ sort of poison…”

Buffy blinked, taken aback. “His exact… You’re _nuts_. Giles dates, like, slightly techno-witchy schoolteachers, and… Well, I don’t know what Olivia did, but she seemed tame enough… and my _mom_ , for God’s sake, not _demons!”_

Ethan seemed unperturbed by her outburst. “Do you know the saying, ‘Better the demon you know than the demon you don’t’? I _believe_ ,” he smirked, “that my dear old friend Ripper would rather prefer you did not, in fact, know the demon he knew.” And the smirk widened as he turned again and marched away down the sloping yellow tunnel.

He couldn’t be saying… She hustled after the angular, alarmingly duster-clad figure, furious now. “Giles would _never_ have an affair with a vampire! And…” At sea, she cast her mind backward to the man she had first met when she’d originally arrived in Sunnydale. How he had reacted to vamps in general, and to her relationship with Angel in particular. “…It doesn’t even make sense, what you’re saying! For one thing, he didn’t know anything that… intimate about them!”

“Oh, my dear,” Ethan answered, slowing to turn back to her, “I didn’t say anything about vampires.” And he went on, stepping from yellow back to red. The color washed over his face, turning him pink from the top of his head to his throat, so that his flesh almost matched the red shirt. 

Thrown, Buffy reacted without further thought. Crowded up close, she seized the man’s lapels—which was tough, because he was irritatingly tall—and shoved him up against the nearest curving wall. The awkward arc made him loom over her, but she didn’t care. “Then what,” she demanded, low and angry, “did you mean? Did you guys start out by summoning a bunch of buxom demon-wenches or something? Because that just sounds like a bunch of frat-boy hijinks, and you’re not going to scare me by telling me that Giles did stupid things when he was younger. I already know…”

Ethan just smiled at her, showing all his teeth. “Oh, he did many stupid things, my dear. And many very smart people. As did I.” The smug look deepened to something that looked like… savored nostalgia. “And I’m sure he has many regrets. I, however… have none, save that it ended.”

/Wh…/ Okay, she so did not have time for this riddle game. She was out of patience. “Look. You come in here, dressed like Spike, start filling my ears with some garbage about Giles dating baddies when I know for a fact that you’re probably trying to make me question everything about him, because even if you were friends once upon a time, we all know you’re not now…”

That actually bought her a laugh that had him bent over in the arc of the tunnel with his hands on his knees, intelligent brown eyes glittering on hers with dark mirth. “Oh, my very dear young woman, from what Ripper said I thought you were cleverer than this. Rupert Giles and I were never _friends_. We will never be merely _friends_.” His grin broadened to something loathsomely sparkling, and his voice lowered to a suggestive level. “We did things together that would raise your hair, and which, no doubt, he would never wish you, under _any_ circumstances, to know.” 

Something niggled at the edges of Buffy’s awareness. She pushed it away, sure this man was just messing with her. Shoved him back up against the wall one-handed. “What are you…” He couldn’t be suggesting…

Not Giles. She would know.

“And as I already said, this is how I have _always_ dressed.” Reaching up, he straightened his scarlet collar a little around her fists. His tone turned deeply instigating. “Perhaps if I remind you of someone… I also remind Ripper of someone. Or… vice-versa.” When her hand loosened in surprise, he pulled away from her, stepped aside. “This, after all, is _your_ dream.” 

/Remind…/

/No./

As she stared, taken aback, he turned away. Made a florid gesture… and she realized they were facing an exit into the main body of the cage. Huge bars loomed before them, around a small, open space covered in litter. To one side she thought she saw the edges of a gigantic exercise wheel. “Shall we continue?” His tones changed abruptly from smug and self-assured to something sonorous, hollow, and he lifted his hand to show her yet another triple X over the cage door. “Twilight is falling,” he repeated yet again.

/Oookay… back to the even weirder, I guess./ She was abruptly tired of all of this. “Uhuh. For sure. Can I wake up now?” /And forget I heard a single word of _all_ of this? _Please?_ /

“You must remember these things,” he murmured as if she hadn’t spoken, or, even creepier, as if he had heard her thoughts; and now his voice echoed hollowly, devoid of all amusement, any snide emotion. “All that you have seen. It is imperative that you do.” 

/Oh, I so really don’t want to./ 

Of course, before she could answer, the cage faded into that bright, diffuse light, and she could swear that for an instant, the afterimage the light left looked like some kind of weird, glowy sunset with a four-pointed star over the left-hand side, which… what? And then that light faded, and below her she saw the rat-wheel spinning, spinning. Inside of it was an image of rat-Amy, running, squealing in abject terror. Her little rat-mouth was wide-open, panting in desperation. 

Pursuing the sleek creature was a hovering image. A woman’s face.

Catherine Madison.

Before Buffy could really register all of this information, the entire cage seemed to be swallowed up in a new, ethereal radiance. When it dimmed, she was standing in what felt like a cavernous underground sort of space; somewhere vast, empty, and damp. She thought she saw metal doors around her. Dozens of metal doors. 

Ethan Rayne was gone. She was alone. 

/Man, I was wrong./ This was definitely a Slayer dream. /Any minute now that cheese guy is going to show up, isn’t he?/

Cheese-guy never had a chance to show, though, before everything started to whirl, and fade.

‘C’mon, Love,’ a voice called from somewhere far away. ‘Please…’

/Here we go again/ she thought, and braced herself for the next scene.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _Ai! Mira a mami chula!_ _=_ Wow! Check out the hottie! (more or less. Mami chula is not a direct-translation sort of thing. Easier to translate 'Papi chulo', the male version.) __  
  
Also, GOD, I just love playing with the subtextual landmine that is Ethan Rayne and his history with our dear Ripper. *kicks heels with glee*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so now we get to see some of what Willow and Xander have been up to for the last few months, and set up some of the comics stuff I couldn't avoid dealing with because I didn't see any way to go in and change it from the root, because our people didn't know it was happening to screw it up. So my second-best concept was to make the denouement of those silly events slightly more swift and elegant and make them more useful to character development for our smaller, more encapsulated and personalized tale in the short run. We set all that up here. 
> 
> Also, we have some more Google-crap-Latin and other "translation" spells in here which are very likely garbage, and I apologize in advance for those.
> 
> Thank you, everyone!!! You're all amazing.

**B:  
  
** Except, when she opened her eyes to scene four, it was to lips of Spike. Which was, to be fair, one of her absolute favorite ways to enter any room, scene, reality… so she just said ‘fuckit’ and wrapped her arms around his neck—which, by the way, why did her arms feel so weirdly weak?—and hung on for the duration. /God, I missed you, I’m so glad you made it into this dream…/  
  
As she did so the _feel_ of him slammed back into her full-force; an overarching, full-body-and-mind sensation comprised of enormous gratitude, of recent, tearing grief, of a weird, fading arousal-hunger colored with the edges of a vast rage, and a relief so massive it swamped her everything. “Buffy, Buffy, Buffy…” he murmured brokenly against her lips.

Wait, was this real? Was she… back?

It sure felt real. The light wasn’t that dreamy, weirdly ethereal thing, and Spike felt completely solid against her. Her body totes felt real against _him;_ by far in a way that things hadn’t in the previous dreamscape-y-ness…

And also, why did she feel so _sticky?_

Okay, she needed to get out of this kiss, because now that she was paying attention she was pretty sure she had the world’s worst case of morning breath, and that was just not okay. And beyond that she was starting to catch faint sounds around her; some sort of muffled imprecations like someone shouting around a gag, and she thought she could smell the scents of ozone and burnt wall, which was a very familiar stink if you’d ever been around a place where there had been a serious magicks throwdown, and, just…

“Spike,” she managed against his mouth.

Nothing. He just wrapped her up tighter and held on like she was going out of style or something. “Spike!” Most of his name was lost inside his mouth, so, at a loss, she gave him a little shove.

He disengaged, clearly unwillingly, but only so far as to bury his face in the probably oogy crease of her neck. “Buffy, oh bloody Christ, I was so sodding _worried_ …” He was lisping. He was in game face. The claim between them flared with the sheer, desperate need to cling to his mate, and okay, so he wasn’t going to be letting go of her anytime soon. 

She would, therefore, have to work with what she had. Which was, as far as she could tell, about a hundred and fifty degrees of visual space before her jaw ran into the back of his head. Patting Spike’s neck absently in an attempt to soothe her wild beast, she used the somewhat-restricted freedom of movement to survey the room and her circumstances. 

/Okay, I’m on the bed. The room looks…/

/Damn./ Their room was a mess. There were scorch-marks on all the walls, running in zig-zags up along each one she could see, up to the ceiling. The light was blown, which, um, alright? That meant there was probably glass somewhere around them on the bed, which was awesome. Her eyes slid down before her, and… The standing wardrobe they used, a sort of scarred, mellow cherry, had a huge crack in one side and was tilting lazily over to the left, which sucked. Her vanity-deal had a shattered mirror, which was even more of the lame. Not so great for bare feet. Not to mention... /I really _liked_ that mirror!/ Photos fluttered forlornly from the edges of the painted wooden frame, one of them burnt a little on one edge. A few were gone, probably blown to the floor, but hopefully they’d all be recoverable.

The bedroom door was open a crack. She saw three heads poking in. Maria and the sisters. Gave them a cheery wave, heard exclamations, high-fives. /Okaaay…/

Then she felt the hum of power, realized the hairs on her arms were standing up. Looked to the right and saw the portal, glimmering on the edges of her vision and blocking her view of the curtained window. And through it, caught a very familiar glimpse of the castle in Scotland; that corner of the courtyard where Dawn had been living. A bunch of Slayers were there, some familiar and some not, poking at the remains of some dead people in kilts, and… /Oh!/ If there was a portal, that meant… “Willow?” Her voice was super rusty, like she hadn’t used it in days, and her throat and lips were way dry. 

“Yeah.” Wil’s voice indicated that she was over there somewhere on the other side of the bed; in the zone Buffy couldn’t see because claim-y, freaked-out vamp-skull. “Spike called me when he couldn’t wake you up. How you feeling, Buffy?”

/God, how long was I out?/ “Okay, I guess…” She tried another experimental shove at her guy’s shoulder, was answered with a low, truculent growl and a tighter clutching at her shoulder blades. He started snuffling at her bite, and yeah. Not so much with the letting her go anytime in the next century. /What the _hell_ happened here?/ “Um, mind telling me…”

“It was Amy. She had you under for almost three days in some kind of coma…”

It all snapped into focus. The journey through the rat cage. Ethan Rayne, telling her she had to _remember_. “Oh. Right. That makes total sense, actually.”

Spike snarled into her neck, vibrating the bite. “Dammit, Spike, I get it, okay, but you’re gonna turn me on, and I’m really not in the mood. I need a shower and I need to know what the hell is going on. Not necessarily in that order.” Her stomach rumbled as her body kicked back into gear, and holy cow, she was hungry. And she wasn’t sure her mouth had ever been this desiccated; or at least, not since Hell-A. “And I need food. Stat. And maybe like a gallon of water…”

“Got it!” Tiny’s voice echoed through the door. The sounds of clawed feet receded, pounding all flappy down the hall, and jeez, how many of their team were just kickin’ it outside their bedroom, anyway?

“She’s gonna be okay!” Rinne.

“For sure! Told you she would, _mija!”_ Gris.

“I’m gonna go tell Nina and George; they’re probably just freaking _out,_ after that lightshow.” Maria. 

At her throat, Spike sighed heavily and, exerting supreme self-control she could literally feel on their bonding, reined in his wilder impulses. His face crunched against her mastoid bones to resonate in her skull, which was… intense… and then he was breathing hard against her clavicle. “Sorry pet. I just…”

Her hand caressed his nape again, picking up the suspended task in long, slow strokes. “I _get_ it,” she reminded him softly. “But I need to get up and deal. Can you get me something to put on?” Because his shifting around on her also brought her to the realization that she was, well, just kind of laying around here naked with a whole lot of audience going on.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can…” Dragging himself away from her, he pushed up to his knees… and woah. He had tracks of tears on his face. He looked… hella haggard. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was too pale. 

The impulse was automatic. “Spike!” she demanded, catching the collar of his shirt with one hand. “Are _you_ okay?”

His eyes found hers, blue-gray with stress, pained but beginning to twinkle once more, and filled with that endless well of love for her which always buoyed her when nothing else could. “Yeah, pet. I’ll do. I just… got a bit scared in there, yeah? Hate feeling helpless.”

/Oh./ What it must have been like for him, to watch her just laying there in her dream? To be unable to wake her and to have no one to fight, no one to…

Her hand dropped away numbly at the very thought. He turned away to rummage through their clothes, leaving her wondering if there was some kind of damage-control that needed to be done around here or something. /Obviously this wasn’t your standard Slayer dream, for one thing./ 

While she waited, Buffy thought she felt the quick brush of Wil’s eyes over the bite scar on her left side, but she didn’t have time to hunch up against any judgment. Not right now. Anyway, no commentary was forthcoming, and in moments Spike was bringing her a tee. One of his, she noticed, and had to hide a smile behind her hand, because if he couldn’t hold her for the remainder of recorded time, he would swath her in his clothes in a sort of symbolic gesture of same. She’d swim in the stupid shirt, but she gamely put it on anyway to humor his desperate need to see her safe while he rummaged around in the wardrobe’s lower drawer for some underwear. Which was when she realized she wasn’t wearing any, and that she didn’t need to pee, which didn’t make sense since she’d been out for days, and she was parked on a towel, and…

/Oh God./ He’d probably had to… keep her cleaned up, and she was going to kill Amy with her bare hands. Rip her to shreds, she was going to… “Wil,” she said tightly, turning to her oldest friend, and caught sharp gray eyes with her own. “Where is she?”

Wil, standing quietly by the left side of the bed with one hand out, still crackling with contained energy, nodded over toward the far side of the bed. “Down there, on the floor. I’ve got her bound.”

“Okay.” Buffy caught the underwear Spike tossed at her with one hand. Yanked them on without much attention as she swung off the bed, and hove into Amy’s view. The blonde witch lay at all wrapped up with power on the floor there between their bed and the wall, eyes glittering with malice as she watched Buffy rise over her. “So, what? You thought you’d just trap me in a dream, come here, and…” She frowned. Shrugged. “I just don’t even know where to go with that. Like, what even is your _goal_ with this, Amy?”

Nothing but glares and muffled noises. “Wil.”

“Oh, right.” Buffy caught a hand-wave out of her periphery, and then Amy was sneering and cursing. “Bad words, Amy, and so not informative. You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Amy’s eyes bulged. “Oh, wait. You can’t, can you, because she witched herself out of existence or something…”

“You bitch.”

“Also not with the super-informative. Maybe Wil should just gag you again.”

“Or I could just drain the sodding cow…”

Now _that_ wasn’t a joke. Not even a little bit. The ferocious urge, barely held in check, raged through the claim, and holy crap, Spike was on the ragged edge of doing exactly that. “William,” she murmured, and fought to keep her tone calm. Not scolding or accusing, because that so would not go over well right now. He was really not in the place for a discussion on ethics. Maybe logic, though? Just a little? She caught his eye, though it took some serious effort; maintained the gaze when he tried to pull away. “I get that too,” she told him softly, “but if you do, we’re not gonna find out who else is involved. Which; my dream told me there was a lot more going on behind this than just Amy. And if they try again…”

He nodded, if with some super-heavy reluctance. Turned away. Stood for a sec with his back to them, trembling a little as he fought for control, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he put a hole through the wall. But, well… what the heck. They needed to repaint anyway, after this. What were a few more repairs in the grand scheme of things?

Leaving him to it, she turned back to their visiting witch-bitch. “So. The way I figure it, Amy, you have two options. I tell Spike to drain you slow, one pint at a time till you talk…”

A low, satisfied-sounding, and frankly eerie growl emanated from the vengeance-minded vamp across the room. It lifted the hairs on Buffy’s nape, and she was used to being bitten by said vampire as pleasant recreation, so she could only imagine what it did to Amy, the intended snack.

“…Or you just save him the effort and talk now…”

A disappointed noise from Spike, who clearly thought it wouldn’t be much effort at all, thank you very much.

“You were right,” Amy averred snidely. “You’re not gonna get anything from me if you turn your tame vamp loose, so why should I talk either way?”

The growl rose to snarl-pitch. /Oh, jeez, Amy, are you trying to goad him _into_ it?/ Though, maybe she was, since it would be kind of like taking a cyanide pill, right?

“And besides; the people I’m working with would kill me if I talked, so this is kind of a no-win for me. I’m not saying a damn thing.”

So, suicide by vamp. Nice. Buffy flicked her gaze up to Willow. “Any way to get it out of her with magicks?”

Wil gave it due consideration. “There’re a few sort of interrogation spells, ‘Slip of the Tongue’ and stuff, but they’d take herbs and a lot of time, and she’d probably resist since she’s still linked to…” Wil jerked all the sudden, as if something occurred to her that she hadn’t thought of. Kicking very abruptly into motion, she marched around the bed and, completely ignoring Amy, faced into the portal. “Hey!” she shouted into it. “Someone get me Xander!”

Startled Slayers jerked up and stared, and one—it looked to be maybe Nadia—darted away toward the interior of the castle. 

“Why do we need Harris?” Spike grated. He sounded irritated at the thought of hosting still more ex-Scoobies in their bedroom when he could just go with plan A and start chomping; which Buffy kind of understood right now, given his mood, but he needed to chill. 

“Spike,” she cautioned firmly. “Wil’s got a plan. Roll with it.”

After a couple tense minutes Xander appeared at the other end of the portal, a bandage over one side of his head, another around one arm, looking worn and dirty. “Wil, what’s up? We’ve got massive cleanup going on and things are a little nuts here…”

“Can you come over here for a sec? There’s something going down.”

Xander frowned and looked back over his shoulder. “I mean, Satsu’s okay, she’s got backup, but Renee’s in the infirmary, and I…”

“Amy’s here. She attacked Buffy. Kept her in a magicked coma for like two and a half days…”

Xander’s response was immediate. “I’m coming. Just let me let them know and I’m on my way.”

Her group here was great, and Buffy loved them to pieces… but this? Was _family_.

“Great. Bring my bag, okay? I need my scrying stuff and my herbs.”

“You got it.”

While they waited for Xander to join them, Tiny jogged in to hand Spike a quickly-thrown-together bowl of what turned out to be broth—like, really? _Broth?_ —and a tall glass of water. Buffy made a face at her guy when he handed it over, but he just sort of patiently glared her into submission. “This stuff kept you alive, Slayer. Lucky you could swallow in your sleep, or I’d’ve had to take you to hospital and get you on a bloody IV. Still, your stomach’s like to be the size of a damn chestnut right now. Take it, yeah?”

With a sigh, she accepted the bowl and meekly took the requisite slow, careful sips under his watchful glower. And wouldn’t you know it, Tiny could even manage magic with meat-water. The stuff was amazing, especially to an incredibly dry mouth. “What is this? Lamb or something?”

“Hell if I know, Love.” Spike sounded incredibly tense and distracted, eyes burning as he went from watching her fixedly to glaring at the prone Amy with clear, murderous intent. The roiling, barely-suppressed, _hungry_ rage frothing inside him was like a covered pot on simmer, bubbling over, and, jeez, he was seriously on edge. If Amy even made a single move right now, said a nasty word about Buffy… Spike was gonna crack. And from the way his… appetites were showing, it was clear the direction his violent tendencies were headed. All of which told a story to her as clearly as if they had been written on the air between them. 

He’d been _interrupted_.

/Well, shoot./ “How close did you come to draining her?” she asked conversationally, and was glad to hear her voice remained judgment-free as she said it.

His eyes jerked back to hers, and his shoulders hunched a little. He didn’t breathe for about a minute, and when he finally exhaled, it was only to bite off two words. “Damn near.” And everything inside him altered, in that instant, from roiling rage to a surge of hunted, muted terror. It sluiced back and forth between them on their bond, making it all too clear that he was awaiting her sentence for that transgression. 

/Oh, jeez./ Even if Spike had lost his head and killed a human… Well. It would have been in the heat of battle, at full-on-demon, defending his mate against an enemy combatant. And yes. She’d have a few bad days over it, if probably not as many as he would have had once he’d started to deal with it. Not that he wasn’t usually pretty good at accepting, rationalizing what happened in battles and all that stuff. 

But dammit, didn’t he _know_ …

Well, actually, he probably didn’t. After all, he was probably long gone by the time she’d told Robin that time that she’d let him… He’d been so pissed off. He’d maybe been miles away by then; too far even for vamp-hearing. Which sucked, actually, because he’d needed to know that… It wasn’t just the mission. He’d come first, for her; even then. Before Robin’s hurt sensibilities, before everyone else’s trauma with her troubled vampire. Before even her own. 

She’d _needed_ him. And that was still the case, dammit. “If you had, for sure it’d suck from an informational standpoint, but I imagine you’ve eaten even less than I have lately, since I’m willing to lay money you haven’t left my side…” His gaze jerked over to rivet on hers, shock running through his being. “And I’m betting we’re not done fighting yet, so, you know. All’s fair in love and war.”

His eyes fell shut. His breath shuddered out. 

Releasing the spoon, she reached out to cover his hand with hers. “The fact that you managed not to is kind of amazing, actually.”

When he spoke up, his voice shook a little. “Can’t exactly take credit. She knocked me back with magicks. Red got loose and bound her up. Else I would’ve.” 

/Oh, man, talk about honesty./ He didn’t want to take credit in her eyes for something he hadn’t earned. “Well, you know,” she managed lightly. “Them’s the breaks.”

“Yeah.” The emotion lying naked between them now, though, almost broke her. Prostrate, vulnerable relief, so deep it was like weeping. He’d actually thought she wouldn’t forgive him for what hadn’t even been a lapse; for what she honestly wouldn’t even _consider_ one.

“You, ah, should sup, Love. You’ll need your strength far more than I.” His voice was more than a little rough. 

“Yeah. Right.” Smiling proudly at him, she went back for her spoon. “We’ll get you fed soon too.”

“I’ll do.”

/Of course you will. You always say that; even when you’re losing it./

They remained still for a moment while Buffy finished off her soupless soup, just bathing in one another’s reaffirmed presences. Willow’s voice broke the silence at some length, sounding relieved. “Oh. Good. Finally. Here he comes.”

Buffy looked up, saw Xander jogging back across the courtyard toward the portal. “Does it look like he grabbed your bag?”

“Yeah.” Stepping forward, Willow relieved their friend of said item as he stepped through. “Thank the Goddess, Xander. You need to save me from these two before I lose my mind.”

/Okay, what?/

Xander’s eye shot over to the bed, and he blinked at the sight of Buffy sitting there in Spike’s shirt. “Are they being grossly snuggly again? Because I can always leave. Come back later.”

“Rude.”

“Yeah, piss off, both of you.” Spike handed Buffy the glass of water. “Drink up, pet.” 

Buffy took it, siphoned off a sip. “We weren’t being snuggly. We were talking logistics.”

Willow made a scoffing sound, expression half-amused, half-weirded-out. “The logistics of whether it’s okay to eat enemy combatants…”

Xander’s expression cleared, and he kind of grunted. “Well, I mean, let’s be real. If he did eat Amy, it’d probably save us all a pretty big headache, huh?”

“Cheers, Harris.”

Willow rolled her eyes, already bent over what looked like some kind of really huge hunk of multi-planed, clear quartz the size of an overlarge phallus. It even had a couple of smaller nodules down at the base that Buffy could swear totally looked like pointy little testicles. “Men. Anyway, I need her. The thing is, alive… _spha Ta-dRSTi_ …* Hmm. I can trace the source of her power back to where she’s based. Dead, the trace telescopes back to wherever it’s coming from… Oh, wow.”

“Bloody hell. Hadn’t thought of that.”

Lifting her head from her crystal-thing, Willow shot Spike a glare. “That’s why you have us. You go all demon-y murderboy on us and stop thinking, and we lose the 411.”

Buffy smiled patiently and locked her arms around Spike’s. “Be nice. I like my murderboy.” Patted his bicep. “When he’s being cooperative, anyway.”

“Buffy, for Chrissake, I’m right here. I’m not a sodding lapdog.”

Xander lifted his brows pointedly at the tableau on the bed. “Uhuh. She fitted you with a little spiky collar yet, Deadboy?”

The growl made a curtain call. “Harris, so help me, if you don’t shut your gob, I’ll shut it for you…”

“Boys, boys…” Buffy had just thought of something. “The dream I was in was a Slayer dream; or at least parts of it. I mean, it had to be, since it warned me that Amy was involved…”

“It did?” Willow sounded fascinated.

“Yeah. We were in her cage…”

A muffled noise of shocked protest from their bound captive. Buffy ignored the interruption.

“We?” Spike demanded, tones abruptly prickly, as if he took exception to her sharing her dreams with just anyone. 

“Chill, Spike; it was probably some other Slayer,” Xander broke in with a shrug. “If she’s lucky it wasn’t that weird cheese guy. Though if she was in a rat-cage…”

Wait; Xander knew about the cheese-guy? /How…/ Never mind; not important now. “It was Ethan Rayne.”

This mention arrested all parties very firmly away from prodding and attempted verbal combat. “Wait. Ethan-costume-boy-Rayne? Turned-me-into-a-Viet-Nam-veteran guy?”

“Drugged-everyone-with-band-candy Ethan Rayne?”

Even Spike joined in on the incredulous clarifications, which was amusing. “The bloke who was an old mate of Rupert’s, yeah, who turned him into a soddin’ Fyarl?”

/Old _mate_ being… maybe the operative term…/ Buffy was still trying very hard not to think too much about the stuff Ethan had insinuated back there in the dream. “Yeah. Him. I think he was… trying to warn me about Amy. We chatted for a while while we walked through her whole cage. The tubes and everything…”

From the floor, Amy made an enraged squealing sound around her magickal gag; not unlike one she might have once made as a rat. They all ignored her. 

“And the dream kept showing me all these things he kept telling me to remember. Like, this triple-X symbol, and this other thing. This big thing in the air above… Well. Kind of around the cage… Like a sunset, I think. A sort of four-pointed star over a half-circle sinking into a line; like an ocean or a horizon or…”

Xander held up a finger, looking awed. “Did it look anything like this?” he demanded, voice suddenly sharp, taut. He sounded excited as he turned around himself, fingers twitching, clearly seeking for something to write with and on. 

“Oi,” Spike called blandly, and leaning over, opened the drawer of the nightstand on his side of the bed to pull out a small, black leather notebook, a pen snugged inside the clasped-shut cover. “Just don’t read anything’s inside there.”

“Uh, okay. Like I wanna read your skanky journal entries, Spike,” Xander answered, looking skeeved out at the very idea. “Probably a bunch of porn about Buffy…”

Buffy smirked a little. “Something like that.”

“Slayer…” The low, warning rumble in Spike’s voice was clear and dangerous.

/Oh, like I was gonna say anything. You won’t even let _me_ see ‘em, you doof./

Turning briskly to one of the back pages, well away from anything remotely written-on, Xander scribbled something swiftly onto a blank leaf, then held up the book. “Did it look anything like this?”

What he had drawn was exactly the same as the thing she’d been shown in her dream. “Well… crap.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Xander closed the book sharply and handed it back to Spike. “Though how you got a sunset out of it is way beyond me. I thought it looked like a frowny guy with a monocle…”

“I told you, Xander, that was a stretch.” Willow sounded tolerantly amused as she turned back to Buffy. “I can see the sunset thing.” Shaking her head, she lovingly wrapped up her penis-shaped crystal in some thick, red velvet-looking stuff and set it gently into her bag. Tugged out a pouch of smelly herbal something-or-other, then walked around the foot of the bed and began to sprinkle it around a loudly-protesting Amy, muttering spell-y stuff under her breath.

“I think the Buffster’s been chillin’ on the beach with Spike for too long, Wil, and you’re letting the feminine solidarity thing go way too far.” Xander turned back to Spike, crossing his arms. “Help me out, Ex-evil Kenevil. Doesn’t that look like a dude with a monocle to you? Like Mr. Peanut?”

Spike reopened the book, peered at it, shrugged as he snapped it shut. “Sorry, Harris. No top-hat, no dice.”

“Well, shoot. No one’s ever on my side.” He turned back to Willow, expression fierce. “If you dare say I was biased because of the one-eye thing…”

“… _Sequi viam_ …”* 

“He said, ‘Twilight is coming’.” Buffy still couldn’t stand any jokes about Xander’s missing eyeball, but more so, this was important. She had the weirdest feeling all the sudden that that bizarre phrase had something to do with that crazy symbol. “In the dream, Ethan kept saying that ‘twilight is coming’, and that I needed to remember it…” 

From the floor, Amy made another screechy sort of noise. Interesting. “Xan, where did you first see this symbol?”

Xander tore his gaze away from their bound captive to blink back to Buffy. “Oh. Uh, on these weird military-looking guys. We did this raid on a church a little south of Glasgow where our mystics—Wil’s found us a bunch of psychic types to help cast a net for baddies, y’know, and suss out the gift for magicks in our girls?—anyway, they sensed some demons up in this church, and kind of a forcefield? So we went up there; me and Satsu and Renee and a couple others while Wil and Rowena held down the fort, and we found these dead guys and the demons. Three of ‘em; took out like nine soldiers, ‘cause I guess machine guns didn’t hurt ‘em much.” Regret colored his voice as he resumed the report. “Anyway, we took out the demons, and after we found out the dead guys had this symbol, like, carved on their chests. So we had Amina shoot it over to Giles to see if he knew it, but he said it didn’t come up as anything special either to that type of demon or any others. No one recognized it. So everyone kept coming up blank, you know?”

“It’s been weirding us out,” Wil broke in, “since it seems like those soldier types were close enough to be maybe watching us, before they got taken out? And after the Initiative…” She shrugged, eyeing her circle of herbs with a frown. “Maybe they didn’t have anything to do with us, just ran into some demons and happened to be nearby, but…”

Buffy felt a slow shudder work through her. “When was this?”

“A few months back. What; October, Xan?”

“October, yeah. I’d’ve thought it was a big Halloween prank, except they don’t do Halloween in the UK, so, you know…”

“Damn shame, too,” Spike muttered. “No night off to watch the kiddies try to come up with what they think we look like. Even if they all think we’re s’posed to look like that tosser Drac, always liked seein’ the little blighters dressin’ up with the gore under the little glowin’ fangs…” He caught their stares belatedly, shrugged in mild embarrassment. “Sorry. Not the point right now. Go on, then.”

“Twilight is coming…” Buffy muttered to herself, pondering the strange message. It sounded more and more important each time she said it. 

“What are you thinking, Buff?”

Buffy lifted her eyes to meet theirs. “Wil, what were you saying about following something to do with Amy’s power?”

“Oh. Well, the thing is, the power she was using… it didn’t come from her. She was strong, but she never had _that_ much unless she was getting charged up by someone like Rack. But I can trace where she’s getting it. Follow it to the source.” Her thoughtful look firmed. “Maybe figure out if she has anything to do with this ‘twilight’ thing…”

Amy made another sound, this one strangely smug. 

“Well, if she does, it sounds like there might be soldier-boys involved. Which for my money means, bring guns. I don’t mind sayin’ I don’t much fancy the idea of endin’ up under the knife again. Third time’s the charm and all that.” Spike’s face was tight as a death’s head. 

Buffy slid a hand to his knee. Her shower was going to have to wait, dammit. “Spike, can you get me some pants?”

“What? Oh. Yeah.” Coming to his feet, he stalked back over to the canted-over wardrobe and resumed rummaging.

While she waited for some useful, stretchy-sort of fighting pants, Buffy watched the other two ex-Scoobies talk logistics. It was interesting, their new dynamic. “Spike’s right. I mean, I might have all the firepower in the world, magicks-wise, but if there’re soldiers involved, a gun or two wouldn’t hurt. Do you think…”

“Oh. Yeah. You know…” Xander nodded. “I can get ‘em. Be right back.” A short pause, and a concerned look. “You think…”

Wil nodded pensively. “I think maybe probably. The whole thing stinks. I mean, _Amy?_ After all this time? I dunno…”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll be back in a sec. Just gotta check in with Renee so she knows what’s up.”

Wil’s expression changed abruptly to a broad, teasing smile. “Yeah. You do that.”

“Look, shut up, Wil. She’s hurt, alright? One of those stupid zombies-in-kilts got her. I just wanna make sure she’s okay before I head into another firefight.”

“Sure. Of course. No problem. We’ll be waiting right here.” Wil was clearly fighting to restrain her rampant grin-age. 

“You know what? I don’t see you hooking up with anyone. Maybe you should start so I have fodder for some turnabout and fair play and all that, alright? Because your big breakup leaves me completely without options to razz you, and that’s totally unfair…”

“Aha!” Willow’s arm shot out pointedly to jab directly at Xander’s abruptly anxious face. Her voice swelled in triumph. “That was admitting! We have admittance! Admission of a hookup, right there!” And she swung on Buffy and Spike, practically crowing. “You both heard him! I have witnesses!”

Xander drew himself up frantically. “I admit nothing. A gentleman keeps his mouth shut and…”

Spike snorted, coming up with Buffy’s favorite workout pants; a nice, breathable pair with a stretchy material in the weave. He tossed them over with a smirk. “Nice try, Harris, but I think she’s got you there.”

“I had him when Renee started becoming this encyclopedia on James Bond and drywalling.”

“Shut up Wil. Look, I’m gonna go get those rifles. I’ll be back. People need to find something else to gossip about besides other people’s love-lives.”

/I mean, I’ve been saying that for years, but no one ever gave me that courtesy, so forgive me Xan if I might kind of want on this bandwagon./ But Buffy remained silent and kept what she hoped was kind of a Mona Lisa smile till he vanished through the portal again before rising to tug on the pants. “So, are they, uh, getting serious?” she asked Wil quietly.

Wil shrugged, all smiles promptly vanished. “I wasn’t sure till just now. I thought maybe it was still just wishful thinking on Renee’s part, but…” Her face twisted with concern. “He pays more attention to her than to the others, which could cause problems, obviously; but more importantly, if he uses her just as a rebound, or so that he doesn’t get addicted to something else…”

Buffy sighed heavily. /Time for a little voice of experience./ “Unfortunately not your call, Wil. They’re gonna have to navigate it on their own. Hopefully if that’s all it is, he doesn’t break her heart. It wouldn’t be the first time a screwed-up person with a ton of issues accidentally used someone who was in love with them without even meaning to.” She knew Spike could feel her still-extant regret as it flowed between them; felt in turn his forgiveness flowing back to her, to stanch her guilt with a balming tide. 

Wil nodded. “Yeah, I mean, I hope that wasn’t what I did to Kennedy.” She bit her lip and glanced away, back through the portal. “No way to ask her now, of course, but I’d hate to think I hurt her that way on top of… everything else.”

Okay, why not ask, since the subject was up and they were in a holding pattern anyway? “Wil, why didn’t Kennedy come with you?” Buffy asked quietly.

Wil didn’t even twitch toward her, much less meet her eyes. “Because I screwed up again,” she answered quietly. “Because I still hadn’t learned my lesson with you.” She shrugged a little. “Because I couldn’t lose another woman I loved, and when I saw her there, laying cold in front of me, I panicked, and…”

A terrifying chill ran through Buffy. “Wait. Hold up. What? Kennedy’s _dead?”_

“Oh.” Will’s voice thawed slightly to something that sounded… hesitantly amused, in a sort of choked, tense way. “I kind of said that wrong. She’s… not dead _anymore.”_

Horror flooded Buffy’s very being. “Oh my God, Wil; you _didn’t_.”

“Bloody fuck, Red, how many times is gonna be enough for you?”

Willow ignored Spike to turn full-on toward Buffy, heart in her eyes along with a swell of clear terror. “I know. I shouldn’t’ve…” She looked down, away. “That’s part of why I stayed away so long. I know you’d be so…”

/God, Wil, you have no idea. How could you do that— _again!_ —to someone you loved? To _anyone_ , after you saw what it did to me?/

“I…i… it was a super short, mystical death; like, a didn’t even have time to get anywhere else death; and yeah, we’re on a break now, which I guess makes total sense…”

/Oh my God; of _course_ you are! It doesn’t matter how quick you did it, Wil; she was _gone!_ She would’ve gotten a taste, and time doesn’t mean a damn _thing_ there!/

Would she ever learn? Would she ever realize how _selfish_ …

“Anyway…” Wil shrugged. “She’s back in the Rome cell now. I’m happy for her. She’s… on a good track…”

Xander stepped back through the portal in that instant, an automatic weapon in either hand… and stopped dead, like he’d hit a brick wall. “Woah. What happened while I was gone?”

“Nothing,” Wil bit off, and waved her hand. The portal closed behind him, shutting off all sights and sounds from Scotland. “Okay, done. Time to go, Amy!” And with a flick of her hand, their bound captive was up and hovering more or less vertically next to her fellow witch. “Cover me, Xan?”

“Uh, Wil…”

“Let’s see where this goes!” Wil sounded overly perky, but her face was strained, and Buffy could swear she almost wanted to flee. _“T olle me ad locum, ex quo mea captivus ortum!”*_

Under her hand, a portal snapped abruptly open, allowing perhaps the tiniest glimpse of something that looked like gleaming metallic walls. 

Too late, Buffy saw the evidence of a wide, triumphant grin on Amy’s face, around the invisible, magickal gag. 

And then something literally sucked her and Willow through the glowy, magickal circle. 

The instant they disappeared through it, it snapped shut.

It was a trick! A trap! Wil was gone.

The people who were after them had gotten Willow.

***

Afterimages, swam across Buffy’s eyes. Alarm bells rang in her brain, spurring her into action. But there was nothing to do, nothing she could grab onto. 

Action; she needed to find some action! 

First thing was first. They couldn’t go after Wil till they found out where she went. That meant magick-workers. “Spike!” she snapped. “Remember last week, at the bar?”

“The three little…”

“Yeah! We need to find them again. We have to get wherever this portal went and find Wil. Which means we need someone who can follow it.”

“Follow it? She didn’t even tell us where it was headed, or…” Xander sounded at a loss and horrified.

“Hence doin’ what the Slayer says, Harris. Need a bloody mystic, some sort of witch…”

“Oh, yeah. Right. You’re saying you know someone who might…”

“We know a few.” Spike opened the door and bellowed out. “Oi. Get on to Krzahks and find us a sorcerer or a mystic or a bloody shaman or summat. One with power. Now! If the sod doesn’t wanna come, knock ‘em over the buggerin’ head and drag ‘em here!”

A startled exclamation rang through the room outside. Maria. And then the sound of scampering feet. 

Bending over his boots, Spike began shoving his feet in, half-growling. “Hope whoever they find isn’t bleedin’ pissed, and can use what Red left behind.” 

Buffy went over to the side of the wardrobe and grabbed up the Scythe. Somehow it had remained on its pegs, despite the chaos of battle. 

The Hell-A axe was on the ground, though. “Axe or sword, William?” she asked, poking at the messy pile of weapons on the floor.

“Axe.” He caught it as it was tossed to him, nodded at Xander. “And maybe one of those?”

Xander looked mildly concerned as he unslung one of the two rifles. “You any good with these?” He was answered with a disdainful scoffing. “Just asking.” Xander passed over the gun, still looking slightly uncertain. “You know, ancient brawler and everything.”

Spike took it, cranked back some sort of knob, slid it back into place slowly and sighted along the barrel. He looked dangerously competent and, to be fair, worryingly hot. “Learned to shoot when I was five, like a proper gentleman. Never know when you might be in a duel, yeah?”

“Um, okay? And since when were you ever a _gentleman?”_

Buffy spared a moment from her mental assessment of the more low-tech weaponry to blink at her guy. He’d had a very strange note in his voice when he’d said it. “A _duel?”_

Spike lowered the gun. Slung it over his shoulder in a matter-of-fact sort of way and resumed casually thumbing his axe-blade. “Leave it, Buffy.”

/So. Note to self to _un_ -leave that, later./

“Okay. Awkwardness.” Xander turned to Buffy. “I guess I should’ve asked first if you wanted it, but you just never seem interested…”

Buffy felt the shudder work its way through her, alongside Spike’s sardonic amusement. “Much with the no. I’m the actual worst with guns.” /Not that it matters when a bomb does just as good a job as a machine-gun at blowing up basically everything your lover owns. Though, you know. Contraband eggs./ She walked a little internal tightrope for a second between remorse and self-justification, fought not to let it show on her face even if Spike could feel it in her being.

Spike chuckled slightly, probably more to show her there were maybe very few hard feelings left than anything else. “She tried to shoot a spidery sort once. Only managed to kill my record collection.”

“Ooookaaay. I’m thinkin’ there’s a story there.”

“Yup,” Buffy managed grimly, and shoved a stake into her waistband, at the small of her back; not because she thought she’d need it per se, but because she really just felt naked without one. “And no, not going to share.” Seated a handheld crossbow on one hip on its nice little belt, clipped a quiver of darts opposite it. “Okay. Locked and loaded.” Met Spike’s gaze. “You?”

“Well enough.” 

“Xander?”

“Yeah.” His one eye repeatedly darted from the door to the spot where the portal had disappeared and back again, tension rolling off of him in waves. Clearly he was just this close to flipping out while they waited the eternity it was taking for Maria to bring back their borrowed mystic.

Buffy wasn’t all that happy about the delay, either. If it was actually a trap, anything could be happening to Wil over there wherever Amy and her allies—their enemies—were holed up. She had heard all their councils while she lay there with her mouth plugged but her ears open, and…

“Oh!”

“What is it, pet?” Spike’s eyes were on her, alarm breeding in his eyes in reaction to her own sudden apprehension.

“Ethan Rayne. He… I dunno. Piggybacked on Amy’s spell or whatever. Got into my dreamscape somehow to warn me about her. About this… ‘twilight’ whatever. And she heard all about it. She was laying there listening to everything we…”

“And these guys might be military guys,” Xander broke in, sounding awed. “And it was the military who captured him. Oh, man.”

Spike leaned back against the closest wall and, against all standard bedroom protocols, lit a cigarette. “Well, that’s a real pisser. Bloke’s probably dead already, innit?”

Buffy shot her vampire a pained look. “Oh, great; thanks Spike. That makes me feel so much better.”

He shrugged and snapped his Zippo closed, then jerked his chin at her as he pocketed it and pulled the lit cigarette from his lips. “Sorry, Love,” he murmured, exhaling smoke as he did so. Obscurely, though he was filling their bedroom with tobacco fumes, she found the smell comforting. “Still mostly demon up front right now. Makes me a bit pithy.”

Probably by now she associated his de-stressor with a similar feeling inside her own body, since she had been sharing his stupid physical reactions for over a year. “Yeah. Remind me what I found attractive about demon-Spike again?”

He smirked and twiddled the cigarette between his fingertips. “Devilishly charming, full of vim and vigor, brash and generally irresistible?”

Buffy hid her answering smile with an effort. “Kind of an asshole, but good in a fight.” He always managed to perk up her spirits, even when things were crazy dire.

“Um, excuse me…” Xander leaned in between them, hand lifted in a kind of tentative way, and waved it a little to catch their attention. “‘Demon up front’?”

Buffy jerked her attention away from her beautiful idiot demon to blink her friend back into focus. “Oh. Um. Long story.”

“Yeah.” Spike straightened to push away from the wall with one boot. “Probably no time for it right now.” 

“Oookay,” Xander repeated, looking resigned, and fiddled some more with his gun. “So, how far away is this Z-Cracks, anyway? Do you think it’s gonna take much longer for whoever it is to bring back a shaman or someone to help us?”

“Krzahks. It’s just up the road. Nice demon-bar. We spend a lot of time there.”

“Excuse me. You ‘spend a lot of _time_ there’?” Xander repeated, sounding incredulous. Also kind of like a broken record.

/Yes, I get that my life is different now, but it’s not currently the point, and also, you’re gonna have to deal./ “Yeah. For one thing, they serve a heck of a vermouth.” She ignored Spike’s amused glance to give the Scythe a purposeful practice-swing, and imagined Amy’s neck underneath the blow. Normally not high on her list, imagining beheading humans, but if said humans were going to make her lay around in bed for days in a state that had required a level of intimate care she had never, ever wanted to share with even the closest person in the world to her… Well, some things were unforgivable. “Course, you have to watch out in case they give you the one that has absinthe in it…”

“Pet, that’s the fun one.”

“For a vampire.” Though, maybe just this once she might make an exception. She might not mind getting blackout drunk after this little interlude. /I sure the hell would not mind forgetting what I know about what happened in here because of that bitch./ “Anyway, you drink whiskey wherever you go no matter what else they have on tap…”

“Here,” Maria’s voice broke in excitedly, and a wizened, robed creature was shoved through the slightly-ajar bedroom door. “Got you a shaman. He’s mostly sober…”

The four-foot-tall mage stumbled through the aperture, colliding sideways off of the panel to stagger in Buffy’s direction, and glanced up with anxious yellow eyes as he fought to right himself. His long, beak-like nose and sagging facial-hide pronounced him a Tigridth. Excellent, instinctive magicks-users; and even better, they sensed the stuff by a sort of residue. Could practically smell it, taste it on the air. “Fantastic, Maria; really perfect.”

“Oh, good; thanks Boss. Let me know if you need anything else!”

“We will.” Buffy turned back to their wary demon visitor. _“Como se llama*,_ Tigridth?”

“Uh… Antonio. And I speak English, so please don’t try that again, alright?”

She rather doubted the name, but sure. Fine. Antonio it was. “Antonio, we need your help.”

“So, what? You sent the arachnid out there to kidnap me?”

They so did not have time for this. “We extended a somewhat forceful invitation. We need you to sniff out some magickal traces for us, and if you can, cast a portal to follow those traces…”

“What’s in it for me?”

Buffy sighed heavily at the belligerence. Once upon a time she would have gone straight to, ‘Are we being serious? I won’t _kill_ you, is what’s in it for you.’ But that had been on her hellmouth, for one, where everyone had known who she was, so most of the time she hadn’t had to bother with threats. And she had since learned that her reputation, the one that had saved her a lot of rigmarole like this, had come at terrible cost. /And, I have to _live_ here now. I have roots, relationships, connections in the demon community I didn’t have there. I’m planning to use those connections to do something useful for everyone, if I can. No need to go from zero to sixty and start burning bridges, so keep your cool, Buffy./ 

Thus, while Xander watched her in shock, she settled down to haggle. “What do you think it’s worth for you? Something like this? I mean, probably you can smell the traces in here as it is, but obviously we don’t have much time. It’s fading by the minute…”

“Oh, I could follow that all day. Strong stuff.” The little demon crossed his arms. “I’ve got time to negotiate, but…” Shrewd yellow eyes touched hers; slid up and down her tense form. “I get the feeling you’re in a hurry for some reason. So… let’s talk.”

Once again Buffy had to bite down on the old, instinctive, _‘Seriously?_ Do you know who I _am?_ ’ because, /You’re not her anymore. Not here. You walked away from that, on _purpose_. So chill./ “Okay… what’s your species into? Coin? Kittens?”

To her right, Xander made a sort of choked, disbelieving noise.

“Oh, I think maybe something a lot more interesting than either.”

She was losing patience. This little bastard was being super cagey, and meanwhile Willow was being… who knew what, over there, and… “Like?” she led, gritting her teeth.

“Hmm.” And it actually tapped its horny little fingernails on its lips in theatrical thought.

/Oh, that cuts it./ 

Buffy moved to swing the Scythe right into the little bastard’s face… and was forestalled by a faint rumble of a laugh from Spike. “How about this, you little pissant? You sniff out our portal and build us another headed the same sodding direction, or I’ll tell your mates what I saw you doin’ last week with that Gorakh.”

Forestalled, Buffy stared at her guy. So did the mage, but he was shaking, and wow. Did Spike actually know something, or had that just been a major shot in the dark that had seriously paid off?

“H…how d…did you…”

“Know one thing about your kind,” Spike told the tiny sorcerer casually, and stubbed his half-smoked cigarette out on his boot. “Your lot aren’t s’posed to associate with Gorakhim for any reason, innit? Not especially to sell magickal labor…”

“Alright, alright, yeah! Fine! I’ll do your portal! Just… shh!” The squirrelly little demon was already hustling over to the side of the room closest to the windows. “Jeez. So touchy about a guy trying to make an honest _peseta_ …”

“They use euros here, now, you nit.”

Antonio shoved up his voluminous sleeves. “Yeah, well… I liked _pesetas_ better.” And lifting his crusty-looking arms, he began a low, chant-y mutter that immediately raised Buffy’s short-hairs. 

“I don’t think this is gonna take long,” she murmured to Xander. “You ready?”

He swung his rifle down on its strap, off his shoulder and under his arm. “Yeah. You?”

“Uhuh.” Buffy turned a quick glance on her mate, telegraphing the same question. Picked up the answering nod, felt his readiness on their link. And saw something flicker in his eyes; a look that begged a private consultation; no outside ears. Accordingly, she stepped a little closer to him, so that she could hear his undertone beneath what was now a low hum of energy. “What’s up?”

“Sure you’re up to this, Slayer? Haven’t really eaten for yonks.” 

Spike wasn’t trying to question her, exactly, but he was a mite concerned. Which she understood, really, but power was actually thrumming through her right now, what with holding the Scythe. The stupid thing was, as always, like plugging into a solar battery or something. Which he should be able to feel, but still. He had reason to be worried. “I’ll live till we get through this. Besides…” She glanced from him to Xander and back again, raised her voice a tad. “It’s Wil.”

“Yeah,” Xander agreed, and set himself, looking deeply determined. 

“Alright then,” Spike muttered, but he didn’t look or feel best pleased about it. 

The whirling sound was becoming a low roar, and things were starting to whoosh a little on the nightstands. The photos on the floor rustled. And all the sudden, a portal burst into life beyond the tiny mage’s hands. “You’re not all planning on going, right?” Antonio demanded nervously. “Because I had to trace the same path, and it only accepted two. Which means this one’ll be at capacity with two as well…”

Spike frowned and shot a quick, bleak glance at Xander, already all but lunging through the gateway. “Well… hell.”

Xander tensed… and then leaned back and sighed. “And you need to watch her back.”

Buffy bit her lip. “Not that we don’t want you to come with us, Xan, but…”

“No, I get it.” Xander’s eyes flickered to Spike’s. “I’m betting you wouldn’t leave her side for any money right now, after all this.”

“No sodding chance.”

With a short nod, he stepped back. “I get it. Even though it’s Wil in there. Besides, I know I’m not the fighter you are, so obviously you’re the man for the job. But I’m just gonna say… if you don’t bring Wil back I’ll shoot you.”

A tight smile rippled Spike’s lips. “Fair enough.”

Xander’s eye went flinty, and he cocked his gun in a disturbingly menacing way and then took up a frighteningly serious sort of stance against their wardrobe. “I’ll cover you.”

Buffy was actually really glad of that. After the Scourge’s success in bringing guns to a crossbow fight against the Slayers, she was honestly kind of concerned that rumors might have spread about that little hole in their defensive ‘armor’. “Thank you, Xander. That’s awesome.”

“Well, you know.” He ducked his head shyly. “That’s me. Wannabe army guy.”

She let the smile show. “Not really. You’re my GI Joe.”

“Aw.”

The mage trembled slightly, hands upraised. “I can’t hold this for long. Something’s fighting to close it. And there’s… a powerful energy signature behind it…” His head jerked back toward Xander. “You. Human. I would pick up one of those mirror fragments and use it to deflect anything which might come out of the portal until it closes.”

“Okaaay…” Bending over, Xander carefully snatched up a triangular wedge of broken glass and held it in his unoccupied hand. “Alrighty then. So, um, if the portal’s gonna close soon, how are they supposed to get back?”

Buffy shrugged. “Let him go. Either we’ll find Wil and she’ll get us back… or we’ll have to find our way back on foot or something. Who the heck knows where we’ll end up, but hopefully it’s at least in this dimension…”

“Oh, man…”

“It is a place of this world, and to the west. Now go! I’m losing my hold!”

Buffy turned to Spike. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

As they crouched in preparation to dive through the portal, the tiny mage’s voice forestalled them. “My debt is paid, right, vampire? You’ll keep your mouth shut?”

Spike swiveled with a little click of his tongue. “Lips are sealed, mate.” Turned back, his eyes locked with Buffy’s.

They headed in.

Face-first into a firefight.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _spha Ta-dRSTi = (Sanskrit) quiver/shake/burst (womb) ..._ (I don't know, I lost my note on the translation of this, and maybe it was all gibberish anyway, but it sounded interesting for some kind of Buffyverse 'activating incantation' but this was all I could find at this point, online)  
 _  
Sequi viam =_ follow the path _  
_ _  
T olle me ad locum, ex quo mea captivus ortum = _take me to the place from which my captive originated _  
_ _  
Como se llama =_ what is your name (formal address)  
  
Next week... well. Things get gruesome.  
:-D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize mightily for the delay; I lost all track of time, being stuck face-first, out of nowhere, in a prequel story that dragged 30k out of me in 4 days. So sorry, so sorry. (The substance of that prequel will be expostulated in greater depth in a later chapter, but suffice it to say it is currently ripping my soul out through my guts and leaving my heart bleeding on the floor, and possibly removing my will to live.)
> 
> Anyway. Action Scene forthcoming. Hope it works. Had to adapt some comix events again, based on wiki summaries and a few frames I'd seen here and there, and then bend them to my purposes. And, I had to roll with some things that occurred in the comics that I thought were, based on the canon events of S7, frankly ludicrous... but they gave me the chance, at least, later on in this story, to explore some really, REALLY interesting ins and outs of vamp-Slayer and mutually-claimed lore, so I rolled with the nonsense. 
> 
> All in the service of established-relationship exploration, and furthering the later thumbing-of-the-nose at some of the stuff that happened in the comix that was either flat out idiotic, or just truly, I think, put in there to pander to certain portions of the fandom while calculated to make certain other portions of the fandom feel, as with their leading man, permanently second-best *cough*twilight*cough*. 
> 
> (itwillbeDESTROYEDitwillbeSATISFYING. Only reason to keep it.)  
> We'll get there. *eveg*

Everything was all just craziness at first, until the portal snapped closed behind them. Along with the, like, maybe, whole squad of soldier-types trying to blow them away there was also some kind of insane energy-cannon thing shooting at them on autopilot the second they entered the bizarre, metal-walled room. What was really unfair about that thing was, every beam they dodged somehow became three as it ricocheted around. Buffy didn’t realize until halfway through the tucking and rolling that it was bouncing off of Xander’s little jag of mirror and back into the room to clatter, yet again, off of the buffed-bright walls.

The only good thing about that was, it also created chaos and confusion—and probably not a few injuries-slash-deaths—for the people who were currently trying to mow down her and Spike, which was of the good. Probably. 

At some point, just before the magickal doorway closed, Xander, bless his amazing, crack-shot soul, got off some kind of lucky deflection thing, and as far as Buffy could tell, got the stupid cannon to destroy itself with its own beam. Which, helpfully, left her and Spike to deal with just a bunch of well-trained human gunmen in tactical vests and other neat body-armor and helmets and stuff, and, okay. She knew how to fight guys like this. After all, she’d broken into the Initiative base. 

Granted she’d had a few more people then, but none of them had been Spike, either—not to mention that none of the Scoobies had had guns on that memorable occasion—so this was gonna be fine, right? “You take the three on the left, I take the three on the right?”

“Four,” Spike corrected as one of the injured got back to his feet. 

“Well, shoot.” She ducked and rolled to one side and cursed herself for not taking the other gun. Even she couldn’t have missed a broadly-arrayed target set like this. Not that she particularly wanted to kill humans, per se, but they were technically trying to shoot at her, so the rules were kind of hazy right now. Also, it was super tough to get close enough to take people out the old-fashioned way in a firefight without getting shot… much less to do it without killing them. 

It took a sincerely irritating amount of athletics to manage it. Eventually, though, she got close enough to start chopping the ends off of guns with the Scythe, after which she could _finally_ employ some close quarters combat rules. Luckily the squad was down a couple guys, and also kind of uncoordinated because of the whole crazed laser-gun thing.

Spike, of course, helped by mowing down a bunch of them legs-first, which was gentlemanly of him, and then proceeded to just kind of leap in like a jungle cat and start carousing, because he was venting his frustrations. Was it bad that she kind of thought that was cute? /You’ve been with a vampire for too long, Buffy, if you think mildly murderous impulses are endearing./ But then, people kept housecats and thought they were adorable when they were basically very tiny, fluffy death-y things, so, you know. Cute was a state of mind. 

Once it was all over and their opposition was mostly laying around moaning, they divested them of their communications equipment so they couldn’t sound an alarm. It was probably unlikely that one hadn’t already been sounded, but on the off chance, it didn’t hurt to try. And then, even though she seriously disliked the concept of using one, Buffy picked up one of the guns and slung it over her shoulder, because it never hurt to do the ‘just in case’ thing. If all else failed, they’d have a backup one for Spike if his… jammed or something. /I don’t know. Whatever. Guns do that, right? I know they run out of bullets at some point, anyway. At least, if you’re not in a movie./

“Just don’t point it at me, Slayer. I’ve seen you with one of those.”

“Ha ha.”

“Just sayin’. Not your bloody strong suit.”

“Shut up and help me figure out where they took Willow. Can you smell her?”

Spike closed his eyes and pulled in a couple long, deep drafts of air. Frowned a little, something that felt almost like recognition wending through their bonding. “Balls.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Couldn’t be.” He shook his head as if throwing something away. But he was frowning, troubled.

“Spike, if it’s something important…”

He turned back, eyes catching on hers. They looked haunted. “It’s just… I know it sounds like bleedin’ nonsense, Buffy, and it doesn’t make any sense…” He’d tensed inordinately. “But this soddin’ place smells like Sunnyhell.”

It brought her up short. “You’re _kidding_ me.”

His eyes had gone that steel color that said he was being forced into something wholly unwillingly, his mouth a thin slash that made his gorgeous lips a tight line and turned his cheekbones tight and hollow. “Can smell the buggerin’ hellmouth down here. We’re definitely underground in some building, yeah? Whatever’s left of the _Boca’s_ just round the bend or some such rot...”

“That’s…” Buffy let out a breath, because seriously? Were they ever going to escape that damn thing? “That’s just unfair.”

“Yeah,” he agreed softly. “Complete shite, innit? Who in their right minds would come to that rubbish place, for starters? But…” He sniffed again, looking bleak.

She didn’t doubt him, but it just seemed so ludicrous. Like, where could anyone even build a… A facility like this, when the whole damn place was a sinkhole? “You sure it’s not, you know, some other hellmouth, or…”

To his credit, he didn’t throw her serious sarcasm. He did, however, eye her grimly. “Was chained up here for a week-plus getting tortured. Died here after. Remember how it smells pretty sodding well.”

She winced. He had a point. “Well. Um. Welcome home, honey?”

He exhaled heavily, sounding pained. “Fuck. When are we gonna get shut of this place?”

/Basically./ “I know, right?”

He started forward again, angling around a pool of blood and muttering something about ‘bad sodding pennies’. “Any road, this is our way.” He struck off toward the left-hand exit, still frowning slightly. “Bracing little fight, yeah?”

He was trying hard to change the subject. Not that this one was much better, but she couldn’t blame him for wanting to avoid thinking about their current locale. “Oh, yeah,” Buffy answered sourly as he peered around the doorway with his stupid rifle, the Hell-A axe poking up out of his belt like a semaphore. Irritatingly, he was going to have to take the lead down here, since hellmouth or no, this place at least was full of humans. As in, beings he could smell and hear and stuff, rather than the demon-y sorts she was built to kill. “The kind I wanna enjoy every week. I wonder how many squads like that we’ll have to face down here.” /How many humans I might have to murder…/

A cool hand dropped to touch hers; just a tiny brush of the knuckles. “Hopefully we’ll be in and out quick, Love. She doesn’t smell like she’s all that far away.” His voice was tight as he said it, though. “We’re clear. This way.” 

Okay, he wasn’t telling her something. “Spike?” she prodded quietly as they started out and down the left-hand corridor. 

He tensed slightly, but he’d never lied to her and he never would. “She smells of pain, Buffy. Adrenaline and fear sweat and cortisol and blood all that other shite says they’re hurting her. Have been for a good long while.”

Buffy’s stomach tightened in terror. “How far, do you think?” she whispered. 

“Down a bit. Better hurry.”

Three echoing, metallic corridors, two crossroads sorts of things, and one weird, adjoining room deal like an antechamber later, and they were outside a doorway that abutted what Spike explained to her with a quick, cutting hand-gesture was their objective. He jerked his chin at her, held up three fingers and tapped his heart. 

/Okay, three heartbeats./

Touched his hair and then the scarlet handle of the Scythe, then dropped one finger. 

/Sure, right. ‘Red’ is one of them./

Patted his hand over his heart really, really fast. 

/Oh, man… she’s in serious distress, then./

Held up another finger and snarled slightly, setting his first two fingers together and passing them through a circle made of thumb and forefinger.

/Amy’s in there. Okay. Have to take her down before she does something Dark-magick-y./

Spike then frowned and darted his gaze toward the open aperture. Held up one last finger and shook his head. Touched his hand over his heart, then shook his head again, touched his nose… and dropped abruptly into game face.

Okay, that was a little tougher. The third heartbeat… wasn’t right somehow. The person was… wrong? And they smelled…

/Oh. Like food. Like… blood?/

Okay, random, but maybe good for them. Maybe one of their combatants was injured or something. 

Nodding to show she understood, at least as far as it went, she settled into a crouch and set her grip on the Scythe. He nodded back. They started their silent count; one that would go off in the blood. 

They burst through the door together, moving as one. And were confronted with some kind of horror-movie nightmare.

Amy was standing at the head of what looked like a hard, metallic operating table, looking up as they entered with the remains of gloating draining from her harsh, pointed features. What she had been gloating down on was, clearly, the still, strapped-down form of Willow, which was bad enough. 

Worse, though, was what was standing over her prone form. Standing beside the table was a creature… no. A _figure_ , holding something that looked like a scalpel in a hand that… 

Okay. It looked like it was made of… Ugh. Muscle. All exposed muscle and eyeballs and tendons and… Oh my god, that was so _nasty_. It was a skinless monstrosity, and what the hell kind of demon went around without a _skin?_ “Um, Spike,” Buffy muttered as they dove as one toward the witch, “Don’t take this as anti-demon, but, what species is _that?”_ Buffy dodged a crackling surge of magicks as it whizzed by her ear, rolled closer to the bitch who’d rendered her comatose for days, came back to her feet. “Because not so much with the fashion-statement.” Swung, causing the witch to dodge backward. “And also, impractical much?”

“You!” Amy screeched, and tossed another ball of energy her way. 

Spike lowered the gun and flat-out fired, spraying bullets at Amy and her weird, skinless friend. The former screamed and fell to the floor, bleeding from an arm-wound. The latter dropped behind the table. Amy was shrieking some sort of imprecation that included the words, ‘my boyfriend’, but Buffy barely heard her. “Don’t hit Willow, Spike!”

“Not gonna. Also, that bloke’s no demon. Smells human. All covered in magicks, though.” 

Buffy raced toward the metal gurney while Spike covered her, ready to swing. “Okay, but humans don’t just walk around without their skins. I’m just putting that out there.”

Spike jerked his chin in the direction of the cowering forms. “Can’t be sure without the hair and oils and the lot, since I haven’t had his blood, but I think it might be that sod Warren.”

The announcement brought Buffy up short in shock. / _Warren?_ That meatsack is _Warren?_ / “No way. No way in hell. Willow _killed_ Warren. She…”

“Skinned him alive?” Spike asked quietly, and nodded at the gurney while his watchful eyes flickered over their crouching enemies. “Motive for revenge, yeah?”

“Oh my God. But _how?_ Andrew saw him as the First, he had to have… Wait. Never mind.” She had reached Willow, looked down. Gasped in horror at what she saw. Her friend was bleeding from dozens of horrible slices, and her… Her _eye_ had been… Been gouged out, like Xander… It was… Was hanging… 

/Oh God…/ She was maybe going to vomit. After she killed these two assholes. “We need to get Wil out of…”

An enormous surge of power struck Buffy full in the chest, sending her careening back from the metal gurney and her tortured friend. She found herself splayed against the far wall, the chill of cold metal seeping through her clothes and into her flesh. 

In a second, Spike was next to her; spread-eagled with the gun pressed uselessly against the wall beside him. “Oh, you bitch, you are gonna pay for that.” His voice sounded low and growly in that way that promised rage and violence… but something about this position was seriously freaking him out. Fear perked through their bond, from him to her; tightly controlled but limned in helplessness. It made Buffy wonder how many times in his life her guy had been tied up and abused. There were two she knew about just off the top of her head. Once in Hell-A, and once, at least, at the hands of Angelus. Which, if Angelus had done it once, he’d probably done it a lot, and, just… 

Shit.

Buffy tugged at her hands, her feet, fury filling her along with the desperate need to protect as Amy sidled close, head tilting from side to side in a weirdly omnivorous way. “Hmm. I wonder what Buffy finds so fuckable about vampires, anyway. You’re her second, right? Or is it her third or fourth by now? I mean, who’s keeping count?” And reaching out, she ran her skank-ho fingers down from the dip of Spike’s throat, along his sternum, over his abs to where his t-shirt rode up. Touched his lower belly lightly, where he had that adorable, faintest hint of a treasure-trail, and let her fingers settle just at the top of his belt. 

Buffy was most definitely going to murder Amy. A lot. Just as soon as she could move. 

Being completely immobilized didn’t stop her from trying, of course, and she tugged with almost mindless ferocity against the power holding her bound to the cold wall, because this wasn’t happening. It. Just. _Wasn’t_.

Spike was growling, of course, in that helpless, murderous way, his eyes burning vicious death at the bitch who dared touch him unbidden, and, just, why did this always _happen_ to him? 

“Baby, why you doing this to me? Seriously? A _vamp?_ Is it because he has skin? I mean, c’mon. You don’t want me to get _mad_ , do you?”

Oh my god, that was seriously Warren’s voice. That was so terrifyingly random and, just, ugh; what was even going _on_ right now?

“Oh, baby,” Amy murmured, and pulled her hand very slowly and reluctantly away from Spike’s recoiling flesh, “just playing.” Turning, she glared at Buffy, all fun fleeing from her eyes. “Not anymore, though. I think maybe it’s time to get rid of a complication. Then we’ll get the credit, and you can keep playing, right babe?”

“Sounds good to me, babe.” Warren’s creepy, gross voice sounded… hungry as he stared back down at Willow’s prone body. As Buffy briefly tore her eyes away from Amy she saw that the skinless wonder was looming over Wil once more, and, just, no. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. 

For one thing, how could even someone as nasty as _Amy_ date a thing like _Warren?_ Even _with_ skin he’d been the most disgusting excuse for an entitled, rapey, abusive, murderous misogynist in the entire universe. Without skin he was also probably just… tacky. Which, you know, ugh!

Man, her self-esteem must really be seriously in the toilet. 

Amy’s eyes glittered as she slithered closer to Buffy. “So, bitch. Didn’t like your nap?”

Buffy kept her cool, if marginally. “Could’ve been worse, I guess. I learned a lot while I was in it.” She let a faint, superior smile touch her lips. “For instance, I saw what it must’ve been like to live in that cage. Kind of claustrophobic in those tubes, huh? And smelly, with all the poop-stink everywhere, on everything. What? Couldn’t help but step in it; get it all over your little ratty hands?” Maybe she could get the witch off-balance enough to make her slip up, lose control for a sec, and then one of them could get free. “And, you know, the wheel looked fun. Repetitive, but it keeps the junk out of the trunk, I guess, since you really couldn’t see the TV from the cage.”

Amy’s face had gone progressively more scarlet as this prodding little speech scrolled by. Suddenly she snapped, got right in Buffy’s face. “You bitch. I’m going to kill you, then your vampire, then when my boyfriend finishes torturing Willow I’m going to kill her too and take her power, and…”

The rest of the witch’s words were lost in a sudden, vast rushing noise that filled Buffy from brain to the balls of her feet. The roaring, surging insanity of it made her skin tingle like it was going to blow off; an incredible sensation almost akin to when she’d first taken Spike’s blood, except… more ethereal. Less physical, more… like something that had been dropped in or invested on her; something that seemed to rush in from above, through the crown of her head, and from below, through the tips of her toes and the heels of her feet—and maybe up through her tailbone?—rather than through her veins or the marrow of her bones. 

It was a feeling of immense power, yes, one that made her certain she could do almost anything… and yet it didn’t feel like it was a part of her. 

_“No.”_ Amy reeled back as if she had been slapped. “No, you can’t! I would’ve known! You don’t have it, you’ve _never_ had it…”

“Bloody hell, Buffy; you’re cracklin’ like anything. Come over all witch-like, have you?” Spike sounded like he was discussing breakfast as he assessed her with interest out of his periphery. “Somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

“I… think something’s come _over_ me _._ ” And it was nuts. It roiled in her, washing from side-to-side within her being, crashing, demanding release. And she knew without prodding that the release would be… glorious.

She got the addiction, now.

“Huh. Got to say, not a fan of the white-on-black eyes on you, pet.”

Buffy cleared her throat with an effort. Her limbs were trembling. “Wasn’t my idea.”

“But… But…” Amy’s eyes darted from Buffy to the gurney and back, and something calculating seemed to come into them. “Oh, I get it. You’re being used.”

“Used?” Buffy frowned and tried to move. It really felt like she should be able to. And, you know, rip off the lid of the world. “God, this is strange…”

“Looks bloody strange on you, I don’t mind sayin’.” Spike, as always, seemed utterly unfazed by the weird shit that happened in their lives. “Where’s it comin’ from, you think?” 

From the way he was talking, you’d think he was ready to just light up a cigarette and lean back to discuss this new development in totally blasé fashion, the doof. “Um, if I knew _that_ , Spike…”

“Willow’s using you, you idiot!” Amy shrieked, getting right back in her face. Then she seemed to get hold of herself, calmed a little. “It doesn’t matter. This is just a lightshow. You don’t have a fraction of the power she can throw around. So much lost in the transfer, and if the vessel can’t conduct it right…” She made a seriously scary face. “Not that I want to bother with another duel right now, so I think I’ll just summon a nice minion to tear you both apart while you’re stuck to the wall here.” With a sweet-looking, vile smirk, she added, “So long, Buffy.” And started chanting, lifting her hands away from the floor. 

“Got to say, not particularly chuffed about gettin’ torn to bits while my tender parts are on display like this, Love. You think you can do anything with what Red’s sent you?” Spike’s eyes flickered over to the table. “‘Specially since I think the skinless pecker over there is about to lobotomize our girl so she can’t keep funneling power over this direction.”

Buffy concentrated, fighting to tune out the overarching terror, the pressure, the irritating chanting as it slowly escalated in volume. /Oh God, c’mon, Willow, give me something…/ The power surged back and forth inside her, seeking an outlet. It made her want to move, to fight, to explode into violence. But that was what _Buffy_ did with energy. What Willow did was… expelled it. And if this was only a tenth or something of what Wil had to deal with on a consistent basis…

/Well, damn. I _get_ it now. And also, this is terrifying, and I’d never wish it on anyone./ But it gave her an idea. 

Buffy was a creature of the body, not of the mind. But the magicks were the opposite, really. Illusion and force and formless things; all the stuff she herself found impossible to hold and control and thus eschewed as terrifying or painful or incomprehensible. But there was one thing she had learned today from Amy. She had chinks in her armor. She was easily unbalanced. 

And that meant what Ethan Rayne had shown Buffy in the dream was useful. 

/What else did he show me about Amy? The cage. The stench. The tiny tubes. The endless, boring repetition of it all…/

It hit her then. That image of the rat, running endlessly, mouth open and terrified, on its wheel. With the specter of her mother’s face ever chasing her, and…

/Use psychology, Buffy. It worked for the First, using Holden Webster. It works for Spike all the damn time. You know it’ll kick her ass if you can just…/ With the recent memory to give it form, it seemed almost easy to call the image up; Catherine Madison’s pinched, disapproving features, her short, fifties-ish bob of a haircut, her overly-perky and yet somehow hard gaze… Held it in her mind’s eye for a sec. “I might not have a fraction of the power Wil does, Amy, but neither do you, or you’d’ve beat her.” Gathered up the power that was washing back and forth inside her, eddying in her limbs. Got it, somehow, into something that felt like a ball… and brought it up toward her head. “Face it; you’re half the witch your Mom was.” Pasted the image in her brain onto the ball… and shoved it outward, onto her own features.

Amy yelped and staggered backward, gone immediately ashen and horrified. 

/Oh. I guess that worked, then?/ It was kind of cool, actually, to accomplish something useful with all that insane, formless power. 

They still weren’t loose though, and this sucked, but at this point Buffy was kind of desperate. So. “Amy Madison,” she exclaimed, doing her best to sound like what she remembered of that long-gone woman’s voice, “how _dare_ you think you’re worthy of this power? After what you did to me?”

Amy staggered back still further. The power in her hands crackled once… and faded out.

Buffy fell to the ground. Hit it running, Scythe out. Heard a distant roaring beside her and knew that Spike was free as well. She was on Amy before the bitch could scramble away, had her down, hands on her wrists, thought ‘ropes!’ and felt that incredible energy slide out of her in a massive rush. Amy shuddered as she was bound again, and screamed. 

Buffy pushed to her feet, gave up trying to hold the mask over her face. “Half the witch your mom was, even after all these years. And still, she ended up who knows where, huh? So I’d think twice before trying weird magicks in the hellmouth, you stupid bitch.” /Why is it always _here?_ / “It always goes wrong, for one thing.” She lifted her eyes to her partner, snarling beside her. “I know you wanted some revenge, Spike, but I’ve been invested with the power to handle her, so could you do something about that jerk? I’d really appreciate it if he couldn’t hurt Wil anymore.”

Spike promptly started for the table. And hesitated briefly. “Any rules, Love?” His voice was still as a pond, but there was that carefully-leashed tremor just under the surface that said really, really wanted to do more this time than just incapacitate. And honestly…

Buffy wrestled with it… but only for a brief second. These two could cause no end of trouble for them, for one thing, and… Well. Warren barely even really counted as a living person, right? He had to be, she suspected, somehow kept here on this mortal coil by Amy’s magicks. She had no idea how their witchy enemy had done it, since he had to have already died, or The First would have never been able to use his image to mess with Andrew. Probably she had done some kind of magickal resuscitation after giving him the magicked skin, but either way, it was obvious that he couldn't live like this without the witch's help. He was already long dead, was being kept on this plane by unnatural means. He certainly wouldn't survive, for instance, human jail. /Like, how could they even prosecute someone that human courts would view as an amazing curiosity? They would probably hold him up as some kind of medical miracle instead, and he'd live forever on the talk show circuit instead of going to prison, with some kind of stupid retinue of caregivers and specialists and crap./   
  
He would end up with all his ego's desire of undeserved fame, instead of the punishment he so richly deserved, which... Honestly, to her mind that put the ball very firmly in their court when it came to how to deal with him in the here and now. And, well... considering his limbo state, existence-wise, would it count as a murder or a mercy, like some of the people Spike had eased out of life back in Hell-A, to just get rid of him and get it over with? Buffy's money was on mercy, but either way, she hated to admit it was kind of a moot point. Warren was no longer a candidate for human Justice. Heck, neither was Amy, considering she could just use magicks to escape jail, but she’d let Wil deal with their witchy combatant later. If Wil… survived.

Thinking of Wil—of what Warren had done not only to Tara but just now, to Willow—that clinched it. Wil had already lost an eye. Been tortured, by someone who by all rights shouldn’t even be in this world anymore. What was Warren going to do? Chill on Death Row? For all they knew he would collapse like a soggy, bloody rag doll the instant he was away from Amy, anyway. He was probably only being kept alive—no, not even alive; _animated—_ by magicks. And for another, he was being protected by the US Military while he conspired to come after her and her friends, maybe spy on her Slayers somehow, and…

That glimpse of the damaged eye, of Wil’s pale face and those thousand tiny cuts, swamped her. Rage bloated the power sizzling in her veins, made the magicks roar, made something inside Buffy shrug off all other considerations. Something practical that said, 'really, it's no big loss'. “I think he’s already dead, Spike. He’s just been waiting for the finale.” She lifted her eyes to his, heard as if from some great distance the very flatness of her own tones. “He’s not human anymore, which makes him not mine. If you can live with it, then go gettim.”

Spike shook his stasis like a statue coming to life. “When it comes to some sods, my conscience gives me no problems.” And he was off like a shot. 

Warren quailed at this vision of oncoming death, and tried to dodge away from the intent vampire, around the gleaming table. 

“No!” Amy shrieked under Buffy’s hands. Struggled, fighting both the physical restraint and the magickal. Buffy held the witch down bodily, of course, with ease and sans thought, focusing all her intent on keeping the magickal restraints in place. Amy could not interrupt Spike. 

His witchy compatriot bound, Warren had no other recourse than to flee. “You can’t hurt me, vampire,” he announced boldly as he backed away to circle the table. “Your demon-fangs are no match for my bespelled hide, given to me by my witch-lover!”

Spike snorted caustically. “Do you always talk like you’re in a storybook? Because I gotta tell you, it makes you sound like a right prat.” He leaped right over the table, catching the skinless man by the shoulders, swung him around against the nearest wall. “Almost as bad as your old mate Andrew, if a little less melodramatic.” And he bent his head. 

“You can’t hurt me!” Warren asserted again, though this time his voice rose to a high-pitched half-shriek of alarm. “Amy’s made me invincible! My magickal skin cannot be punctured by…” His voice cut off abruptly in a sharp, piercing sort of gargle. 

“I guess you forgot to make it vamp-proof?” Buffy asked the witch conversationally.

An escalating surge of elation hit the bond; so powerful it was almost on par with what she got from Spike with the combination of Slayer-blood-plus-sex. /Guess it’s better when there’s fear, and you get to finish. Which, I suppose makes sense from the standpoint of feeding the inner predator./ She might have winced, but, well… Everything was kind of muffled for her by the ethereal power washing through her being right now. The borrowed magicks were making even the sharing of something she didn’t exactly wish to share kind of distant, for which she was distinctly glad. /Because, call me dumb, but I forgot about the part where I’d feel it and… enjoy it with him. Which is a bit much./

Amy’s eyes bulged in panicked horror, and she bucked hard under Buffy’s body. _“WARREN!”_

There was a sort of… suspended note in the distant climb toward some shining peak; an unutterably drawn out plateau… and then a feeling very much like climax, if also very, very different. Like bright satiation after a long time spent just _this_ close, but never quite satisfied; of perfect need gratified, of fulfillment and repletion. Which… well. Was understandable, though her mind shuddered away, just a little, from the sheer, primitive joy he felt in the glut of it.   
  
And then a thud sounded somewhere behind their heads, followed by a fulfilled, not-quite-moaned rumble that Buffy knew quite well, despite the fact she had never heard that noise made for exactly _that_ reason. She found herself exhaling sharply in a strange relief, and since when had she been holding her breath, anyway? /Well, that’s over./ “Oh, he’s already dead," she informed Amy blandly. "Or, you know. More dead. I’d write him off.” 

_“NO!”_

_“Christ._ Oh, _Christ_ , I need a fag…”

Despite the torrent of power raging through her, Buffy had to rein in an indulgent smile. He sounded orgasmic over there. “Not trying to step on your afterglow, Spike, but can you get Wil first? Maybe we can carry her out and have a celebratory cigarette somewhere, you know, off the hellmouth?” The fact that she was still full of juice at least told her that Wil was alive on some level. Probably in some deep meditation or something to get out of her body, for which Buffy really couldn’t blame her, but that also meant they were kind of SOL when it came to dealing with Amy. 

With all her focus on channeling the incredible power inside her into the glowing ropes that bound Amy and were—somehow—keeping her from using her magicks, Buffy couldn’t spare a glance at what her guy was up to, but she could hear. Her hearing even seemed weirdly augmented, despite the insane rushing noise inside her head. There were no ripping noises indicating the removal of shackles, no clinking sounds as they were dropped to the metallic flooring; just the rustle as Wil was hoisted to Spike’s shoulder. “Bitch must’ve had her bound with some sodding spell,” he murmured as he lifted their friend from the site of her torment.

And abruptly, something inside Buffy switched off, like a light being put out, and all the power pouring through her being fled. She sagged. And, distracted, she briefly forgot to keep hold.

Amy gave her a vast shove and scrabbled out from under her like a crab, the energetic bonds around her collapsed like they had never been. “How _could_ you?” she demanded, crouched and pallid and overwrought. Her hair hung around her, lank and lifeless, her face strangely sunken and her eyes darting everywhere. “How _could_ you? He never did anything to you…”

/Um, okay…/ “He shot me,” Buffy reminded the idiot woman with wary sarcasm. She had the Scythe back in her hands, much good it would do her. /God, is Willow…/ The only reason she could think that the power in her might’ve winked out like that must be that her friend had also… winked out, which was… It didn’t bear thinking about. “He killed one of my best friends just because he was offended that I beat him in a fight; because he was a whiny little brat who thought boys should always win and get everything they ever wanted without effort, just because they’re born with outies. He deserved what he got, and then some, and I’m really not sure why you were giving a murdering rapist the time of day.”

“It’s not rape if you’re under a spell, any more than if you’re drunk. And how do you even know about…”

“Andrew. And wow, if you actually believe that, Amy, you’re even more messed up than I thought.” Buffy tossed the Scythe from hand to hand. “So, what; are you just gonna talk me to death, or are we gonna get into it? Because I’m getting bored.”

“I’ll kill you someday.” Amy was actually backing away… which seemed kind of odd, considering she should be out for revenge right about now, right?

“Buffy…”

Buffy frowned at the note in Spike’s voice. At the alarmed hope rising between them on his augmented blood. “What’s up?”

“Me.” 

Buffy’s head swiveled around sharply, almost without consulting her. Willow was there, standing on her own two feet, all her wounds gone and power crackling all around her. “Hey, Amy.” 

Thank God, even her eye was back in place. “So. Here’s how I think this should go. You’re all tied up and cut off from your source. Your gross boyfriend is a pile of nastiness on the floor of this hellhole, and honestly, I’m really tired of dealing with you. Technically, though, I’m supposed to be off the whole ‘killing people I hate’ gig, so I’m gonna give you this one chance. I’m gonna take off your blinkers. I expect you to run. If you portal the hell out of here and never come back to help these bastards again, we’ll call it even. Consider you misguided or something. But if you come at any of us with so much as a Flame of Fafnon, you’re dead as your dick boyfriend.” And she waved one hand; just a twitch.

Amy gaped, open-mouthed, for about one-tenth of a second… and then a portal opened in front of her, and she promptly vanished.

Buffy sighed heavily. It was definitely one less problem, at least for the current moment, though she had no doubt Amy would be back to haunt them later. They had, after all, killed said dick boyfriend. But… she hadn’t exactly wanted to murder the woman in cold blood, either; nor had she wanted Spike to do it. Nor, honestly, Willow. /So, where else did that leave us, really?/

Wil had made the executive decision, and she supposed it was pretty much the best one that could have been made under the circumstances. Even though maybe she would later be outvoted in the bedroom. 

Spike, over there across the room behind Willow, was growling ferociously. Which, well… Okay. /C’mon, Spike. Two for the price of one after going lean this long is just, like, super-sizing. You might get fat or something. Take a breath. Or, you know, chill./

Willow’s uninjured eyes met Buffy’s across the intervening space. They were solid black. “Good job handling the dump,” she congratulated emotionlessly. “Sorry I had to do that, but…”

“No, um, it was… Intense, yeah, but…” Buffy cleared her throat, and then, shaking her head, lowered the Scythe, adrenaline slowly leaching out of her to leave her shaking a little. “Are you… okay?”

Wil stopped crackling, and the white-streaked-with-black slithered out of her hair. Her glowing, lightning-y eyes went back to pearl gray, and her tones went human again. “Yeah. I, um… Had a few rough minutes…” She shook her head a little. “Buffy, they wanted _you_. I was bait. We need to watch out down here.”

Spike’s growl shot up a couple of notches into snarl territory. 

/Well… that’s friendly./ “Why me?”

A confused frown touched Wil’s sweet-again features. “Something about how the higher-ups needed to pull you out of hiding before they could strike.” A worried expression darkened her usually-bright eyes. “Buffy… I think someone down here really has it in for you. They might’ve been looking for you when they were watching the castle, or…”

Spike’s growl receded slightly. “Why the bloody hell torture you, Red? We were already coming, and they should’ve known it. We wouldn’t’ve known what they were doin’ to you before we got here, so it wasn’t like to get us here any faster…”

“Oh, that was Warren.” Wil looked away, a slight twist to her lips that said she was trying very hard not to think or remember what she had just endured. “Since I was just bait, they turned me over to him so he could get his revenge on me for the whole skinning thing.”

“What I wanna know is how he was even alive! Or, not alive, but you know what I…”

“Amy,” Wil interrupted grimly. “I guess she followed my energy trail that night and disappeared him the minute I flayed him, resuscitated him and wrapped him up in magicks. She’s been keeping him alive with a nice little spelled envelope ever since. She’s actually a lot stronger these days than I gave her credit for; or at least a lot sneakier. She used a kind of binding on me that made it so every time I tried to use my powers to escape it just fed the bonds. So I dragged it out as long as I could, to buy you time. Did a lot of talking to keep Warren cutting…”

/Oh my God…/

Wil shrugged lightly. “Eventually I had to drop into an astral meditation. Seek help from another plane to deal; get some instructions on how to send you the power when you got here. I’m glad you found a mage, because it was a pretty good thing you got here when you did. He was about to lobotomize me through my eye when you walked in.”

“Oh my God, Wil.”

“It’s okay. All fixed now.”

It was a brave front, but Buffy saw right through it. Wil’s lip had that little tremble in it, and the back of her voice had that tiny wobble… Buffy moved in, was hugging her old friend while she shook and tried not to fall apart. “Hey. Let’s just get out of here, okay?” She was going to have a tough time for a while. Losing your physical integrity like that, feeling helpless while being tortured… It did things to your mind that took a long time to get past. Heck, Spike still had issues after a century. /Probably we all need therapy./ 

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that. Where are we, anyway?”

/Maybe she can portal us out easier if she knows where she’s starting from?/ “You, um, won’t believe this, but Spike says it smells like we’re back on the hellmouth.”

That brought out a shaky laugh from the woman in her arms. “You’re right, I don’t believe it. Except for the part where I do, because that’s just kind of typical, you know?”

“Totally. So, um…” Buffy did her best to keep her voice gentle. “Do you have enough power to get us out, or do we need to start making tracks?”

Wil pulled away to sigh, and shook her head in reluctant negation. “Amy portaled somewhere to get away from us, but I’m betting just across the site somewhere and then bailed. There’s some sort of… dampening field around the place. I can’t feel my way out. It’s like being in a blind bubble.”

Buffy really had no idea what that meant, except for the part where they were going to have to fight their way free. “Great. I guess it’s all swords and firepower and laser-fingers, then.” She lifted her gaze to Spike’s as she and Wil disengaged. “You ready for more mayhem?”

Unsurprisingly, her guy looked loose and limber and full of swagger right about now. “Oh, yeah, Slayer. I can take on a whole bleedin' army.”

“Well, keep that demon up front. I have a feeling it’s gonna be a long haul.”

“No bloody fear.” 

/That’s what I thought, Mr. Belly Full of Blood and Rage./ “Alright.” She caught Wil’s eye, received a faint but more or less prepared sort of nod. “Let’s get out of here.”

***

The place was a labyrinth, whatever else it was. With Spike there in full-vampage to sniff for free air and passing squads of humans they mostly avoided trouble, and made what they all hoped was steady progress toward the eventual exit. What that meant, though, was passing through about a million miles of completely identical corridors, all made out of what looked like stainless steel, because really?

This place had even less imagination than the Initiative complex had had, and that was saying something.

At one point, though, they paused at a T-junction at Spike’s hiss of warning. “Human.” He frowned then… and froze. “Never mind. Dead human.” There was an odd note in his voice as he said it. An almost regretful one; enough to make Buffy wonder if he was slipping out of the demon-zone and back to what had become situation-normal Spike; William-side-up. 

They rounded the corner, on the alert as ever… and Buffy stopped dead. Facing them, on the opposite side of the corridor, were a series of doors. Dozens of them, all marked with roman numerals.

And the one almost directly across from her was marked ‘XXX’.

“Oh, crap.” /Cell thirty. That was what he was trying to tell me. That he’s in cell thirty./

Moving forward without thought, Buffy strode to the door. And was halted by Spike’s hand on her bicep. “Buffy.”

She shot him what she knew was a burning look. “Ethan Rayne’s in there. We may not like him. He may be a pain in the ass. But he saved my life, and Willow’s. He led me to the right part of the dream so I could figure out exactly how to fight Amy, and he showed me that ‘twilight’ symbol, which I still think is gonna be important, and…”

“The bloke’s dead in there, pet. An hour dead, at least, by the smell of it.”

The quiet pronouncement stilled Buffy’s heart, froze her fingertips, her feet. /Oh, God no./ “They killed him because Amy told them he was helping us.” Pained conviction rang through her as she pronounced it. With a grimace, she went for the door again.

“Slayer, the sod’s tits up. We have to go…”

She shook her head. He didn’t know. He had no idea what… 

_“Rupert Giles and I were never_ friends _. We will never be merely_ friends _.”_

For Giles’ sake… she needed to do this. If she was even half right… “He’s coming with us.”

Spike gaped. Stunned amazement pealed through their link. She couldn’t have shocked him more if she’d told him she was giving birth or something. “Bloody hell, Buffy, _why?”_

Willow was staring at her too, clearly thrown. “I mean, I get that he helped us—maybe even saved us—but Buffy, getting out of here is gonna be hard enough as it is. Carrying a body out on top of everything else…”

She knew they both thought she’d lost her mind, but the hadn’t been in that dream with Ethan. Hadn’t _heard_. “I can’t explain right now. Just humor me.” And she yanked the cell door open.

It broke free with a metallic squeal that echoed all along the corridor. Spike winced sharply. Buffy, though, ignored it to step slowly within. 

It was a tiny room, furnished with only a toilet-sink combo, a thin-mattressed bed that was really more a sort of metal shelf sticking out of the wall… and a body. 

Ethan Rayne lay smack-dab in the center of the sterile room; crumpled on the floor, a pool of drying blood around his head. 

“Gunshot,” Spike muttered clinically. “Right to the brainpan. Lights bloody out.”

“It was an execution,” Willow breathed.

“‘Bout sums it up, yeah.” Spike’s eyes darted over to Buffy. “Are you serious about this, Love? Because I can think of a hell of a lot of things I’d rather do today than lug a piss-and-blood-covered corpse about when I should be fighting. I’m not sodding Illyria.”

Willow looked startled. “Isn’t that the Old One who took over Fred? Why was she carrying a corpse around?”

“Long story. Spike, who says you’re gonna have to be the one to…”

Spike sighed heavily and passed her to approach the body. “Because you’ve got the kind of weapon needs two hands, pet.” With a grunt, he hoisted the tacky cadaver up into his arms. Made a disgusted face, then heaved it grimly over his right shoulder. “You’re sodding lucky I love you, you mad bint.”

He was such a damn good sport. “I’ll make it up to you later?”

“Yeah. You’d better.”

They made their way down the corridor to the right, following Spike’s nose once more, though he did bitch a lot as they went about how it was a lot harder now to smell for fresh air with an aging stiff on his shoulder. He did it mostly under his breath, but he did it in that way that was meant to be overheard, and you know what? One thing she hadn’t missed about demon-side-up Spike was the impatience factor. Soul-side-up Spike was a lot more easygoing. 

/Or maybe he’s just less snarky. He does that ‘forbearing’ thing. Which, you know, you were all teed off about how little he spoke up when he first came back from Africa, and you know you miss the snark when it’s not there, so stop being impossible to please, Buffy./ Really, she was just keyed up. This place was a warren, and it was taking forever to find a way out. No doubt her irritation was translating to Spike, and vice-versa. 

For all the good, fun parts of sharing a closed claim, there were a lot of less-entertaining side-effects; like rebounding, building crescendos of emotion stacking up like a huge house of cards till you didn’t know which of you originated the emotion. The whole thing could become super-explosive and end up coming down in a massive domino-effect of not-goodness sometimes. And yes, they had had their blowouts about it over the last half a year till they’d figured out how to chill and take responsibility for their own stuff. Dial it down and work back from ten to three, see if they could untangle the mess. 

So. /We’re both freaked and upset, and he’s worried about me because he’s basically been worried about me since I cashed out and never woke up, and because I haven’t eaten much in days, and he probably feels guilty because he just got a full belly and I still haven’t, like that’s his fault… And then there was the ‘pinned to a wall all helpless’ PTSD thing, and the almost watching me get killed by Amy while I was asleep thing, and now he’s carrying a corpse around instead of getting to be nimble warrior-guy, and neither of us love being trapped./

And she knew her own emotions, the ones that were getting to him. A lot of them were shades of the same. He would be reading them loud and clear. Her energy was flagging. She was starting to get shaky from hunger, which would just piss Spike off to no end—mostly out of sheer terror for her, because he’d want to be able to carry her, not Ethan Rayne, if needs be, or at the least protect her if her strength gave out on her—and the aftereffects of being filled with Willow’s magick were giving her a hollow sort of… Not quite a headache, but definitely a hangover-y, empty feeling, like she was missing something, and okay. She could really use a dose of Spike-blood right now to feel better. To feel full-up with energy again. Which was bad thinking—addict thinking—and time she put that one aside. 

/What I actually need is a square meal and some water and some snuggles and sleep. Then I can get in some good demon-y bonding after that. When I’m back right-side-up again, and it’s not about compensating for this... What is it?/

What it was, if she was going to be real about it, was a taste of the forbidden. And it was something her ex-bestie had to deal with every day, so she for sure could handle it till they got out of here, at least, dammit. 

Exhaustion was making it tough to ‘forbear’, though. 

Right now, Buffy was mostly riding on rage. Rage at having had to watch her guy be restrained and violated in front of her. Rage at knowing she’d been too late to save her friend from torture. Rage at whatever faceless group was supporting Amy and Warren and had killed Giles’ old bestie—or whatever Ethan had been to Giles—and was up to god alone knew what here in the hellmouth, of all places. Rage at just having to be back here at all, in a place that had cost them so much. Had cost her Spike; had cost her her life and his and his safety and his torment and her own, and… 

And all that was twisted up with a yearning that could never be given surcease. Longing for a home she missed and would never see again; because Sunnydale, for all it had been hell on earth, had also been her identifier, her connective node. It had been _hers_ , to have and to keep, to save and to hold up. To buy with her blood and to protect with her body… and it had been the place where she had found family, found love, found _herself_. It had been her formative _everything;_ and to be dragged back here to her sacrifice, to the scars of it now blown off the map—yes, she had seen GPS photos, once, late at night on Xander’s screens up at the castle—had hurt like having something excised from her own flesh, her own heart. Like losing a part of her own identity. 

Saving it by destroying it… still felt like failure. Another ransom paid, another ‘kill the thing you love for the world’, and yet another thing she’d had to give up for the work. Not that she wanted to stay anymore, per se, but she did all the same, and… Couldn’t she have just kept her home, but cleansed somehow, or…

Rage, and pain. And yet… the diluted dregs of that emotion were running thin, and when they failed her, not even the Scythe would likely keep her upright. It took a lot to get a Slayer off her feet when she was holding the old M?, but no food for days plus serious ‘conduiting’ for the Powers the entire time, and then after that going directly into battle and being used instead as a wick for someone else’s magicks? That was apparently a qualifier. “Are we out of the shielding yet?”

“No,” Willow reported back all shortly. “Still can’t portal.” 

Buffy wondered what it was like for Wil to be back here. She’d lost the hell of a lot in this place too. She’d lost Tara here. Found and fought her own darkness. And ran, never looking back; from family, from friends, from self. And, you know, been tortured here, now, because why not.

/God, what _is_ it with this place?/

“I think maybe if we can get far enough from the jail part…” Wil made a strange face. “I mean, they wouldn’t want the prisoners to be able to magick anything in or out, but maybe they’d want people from the inside, like Amy, to be able to do magick-y things in some parts. It’d be useful to them, but they’d want to keep it out of sight, right? Not, you know, out front somewhere. So even if we can’t find our way out of here, I’m sure we’re gonna run into some part of the complex that isn’t shielded…”

Spike grunted at that, and hefted the cadaver a little higher onto his shoulder. “In which case, we’re going the wrong bloody way. Right now we’re headin’ away from anything central. If you’re in charge, you only want the main lads to have that kind of freedom. Any road, I don’t propose we head back to the main digs. No exits up there, yeah?”

Buffy parsed her way through that. “The whole point is to make our _own_ exit. Not that I don’t get what you’re saying. I don’t want to be cornered either, if we’ve guessed wrong, but we’re not finding our way out from down here. What if we take an elevator straight up? Find the above-ground offices. I mean, Willow’s got a point. If you’re the big boss, you’re gonna want to suspend the rules for yourself. Like back at Wolfram and Hart, right?” That one earned her a quarrelsome sort of grunt, and she shot a pointed look at her pugnacious love. “If we keep wandering around forever down here in the bowels of the place with the prisoners and the flunkies, we might never escape.” When he stood unmoved she let her mask down, just for a second. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold up before I get something to eat.”

Spike’s stubbornness deflated like a pricked balloon. He nodded once, sharply, back to all-business. “Tryin’ to think the last time I saw any lifts.”

They all knew it was a gamble, but it was also all they really had. /And Spike will risk any kind of odds, any kind of fight, for me./

Warmth flooded her, gave her strength. 

Amazingly, when they found the elevators, they weren’t locked down or anything. Bizarre, actually. You’d think they’d need a keycard or something to make them work… or at least, that was Buffy’s experience from her time with the Initiative. “I would’ve thought…” Then she caught a flicker of movement out of her periphery. Something white as Spike shoved a small placard into his pocket under cover of the dangling body. “Keycard?”

“Nicked it off one of the blokes we took out when we first arrived.” The doors slid shut with a quiet _tchunk_.

/I love you./ God, he was smart. “Thank you, William.”

Her emotion, radiating in his direction, earned her a flash of smug amber and fang and self-assured smirk. “Fingers ever at your service, Slayer.”

Buffy bit back an answering smile, though she knew it showed in her eyes beneath the growing weariness. “A fact for which I’m deeply grateful…”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Willow groaned, rolling her eyes, and leaned back against the stainless-steel railing. “Can you two ever not flirt? Like, even for five seconds?”

Buffy closed weary eyes, but kept her voice as light as she could manage. “Where would be the fun in that?” Spike wouldn’t be fooled, but whatever.

She could feel his concern from here. “Buffy…”

“I’m okay, Spike. I just need to get out of here.”

Willow’s voice echoed in the conveyance as they shot upward. “What’s…”

“Slayer’s been on broth for days, Red. On top of that and fighting, that little jolt of magicks damn near put her on her knees.”

“Oh, God. Buffy, I’m so…”

Buffy jerked her head once in quick negation, though she didn’t waste the energy to lift her hand. “It’s fine. You did what you needed to do. I’ll live.”

“Let’s just get to you where you can get us out of here, Red, yeah?” Spike was, to his credit, trying very hard to keep his growliness to a minimum. Tough for him when he was on red alert, max mate-protection mode… but his voice was pretty thick with the edgy vamp-tones right now.

“Okay. Yeah. Sure. You bet.” 

Reticence reigned for the remainder of their (fairly damn long) journey upward in the mostly-silent elevator. When the doors slid open again, they sounded unconscionably loud. Spike sniffed deeply of the air before nodding that they should exit, shifted his burden on his shoulder so he could get his rifle pointed out underneath it. “No one there.”

Wil nodded and stepped out, hands crackling with energy. Buffy gathered up her will and what was left of her strength and followed, a little to one side of her guy, Scythe held at the ready. Spike took up the rear, rifle pointed out away from the two of them, eyes darting around the corridor and nostrils flaring to catch the scent of any comers. 

Good thing they had him around, too, because otherwise they would have run smack into a whole troop of guards hustling around the corner to head them off. Instead what actually happened was, as they neared a junction in the corridor, Spike suddenly tossed Ethan’s body to the ground with a wet _thud_ , jerked his gun up waist-high to cradle it in both hands, and crouched. “Incoming.” 

/Shit./ “How many?” Judging by the alarm perking between them, it wasn’t a small grouping. 

Spike tilted his head to listen, shook it. “Bigger group than downstairs. All smell human.”

/Damn./ Buffy nodded at Willow. “You ready?”

Willow looked grim. “Not a fan of anyone on the same side as Amy and Warren.” Lightning started to dart from her fingertips… and a shield promptly billowed up in front of them. 

Spike frowned truculently. “Can’t shoot through that, innit.”

“Wouldn’t advise it.”

Smoothly flipping the rifle onto his shoulder, Spike yanked his axe out of his belt, took up his usual stance at Buffy’s direct left. Buffy immediately felt stronger with him there. “Alright, Love?”

“I’ll manage.”

“You’d better.”

“Mmhm. Or else what?”

“Think of somethin’ later, suitably bloodthirsty.” 

“Promises, promises…”

“Seriously. Flirt later. Fight now. Jeez!”

Buffy felt her lips twitch as she tapped the Scythe lightly against the axe. Spike joined her in the toast, eyes darting around ceaselessly to case the opening between corridors. She could feel his amusement, rising to join her own. “Hate to break it to you, Red, but fighting _is_ flirting, yeah?”

“That’s… kind of messed up.”

/It’s real, Wil. I haven’t been ashamed of my demon-ness… Demoninity? For a while now. You’re not gonna make me start today./ “It’s not new.”

A flash of khaki appeared at the head of the dully gleaming corridor. Fatigues in desert cami with a familiar flag on the shoulder. A rifle-tip. “Heads up!”

The minute more than one of them rounded the bend, the soldiers started to open fire. 

/Oh, real friendly. Wow./ 

It took serious mojo to just stand there and watch bullets fly at you… but then, after the counter-assault against the Scourge with definitely-less-dependable magicks, Buffy was willing to trust even a wiped-out Willow’s shield. She might be shaky, but Wil was so not gonna let them get shot. 

“I guess citizenship doesn’t mean anything to the US Military anymore?” Buffy called as the first salvo fell uselessly to the floor in front of them.

The soldiers halted to stare blankly at the trio of invaders. “You are under arrest for infiltrating a US Government facility…”

“Uhuh. How it is trespassing when one of us got literally sucked here against her will by one of your…” Buffy frowned. Shot a glance over at Spike. “Consultants?”

“Sounds good to me, pet. Might try ‘Civilian Contractor’, though. They like shite like that. ‘S in the lingo.”

“Right. Thanks, Sweetie.” She turned back to the Army guys. “Civilian Contractors. This is just mostly a rescue operation…”

“You’re in violation of Section 1382 of Title Eighteen of…”

“Wow, they’re not even denying that this is a military site. You’d think they’d at least _try_ to pretend it’s something else, you know? The Initiative at least had a cover story.”

Someone in olive drab with a tie, a perfectly-brushed cap and suit, and a lot of stars on his shoulders shoved his way to the forefront of the group. He had a hard, lined, taciturn face and was clearly a leader of some sort. “The Initiative,” the newcomer informed them flatly, “had plausible deniability. As do we. These…” A little downward inflection hit the rough voice. “Newcomers… aren’t fully aware of the ramifications of their new duty station as yet.” 

The soldiers on either side of the big enchilada exchanged glances, looking uncertain. 

“Officially this is not a US Military installation at all; though you wouldn’t be able to identify the lie to anyone in power or in the media, since you couldn’t put a pin on a map and say where we’re located…”

“Want to make a sodding bet?” Spike snarled. 

Officer-Guy man tilted his head slightly; a genial gesture. He didn’t seem the slightest bit alarmed to see a vampire in game face in front of him, much less a witch with the crackly lightning fingers. Or a force-field capable of stopping a round of machine-gun bullets, or a couple of people who carried automatic weapons but who had chosen instead to wield medieval-looking axes. 

But then, he knew what the Initiative was, so he was clearly not uninformed. “You may, in fact, be able to scent your location to a certain broad, geographical extent,” their interlocutor allowed after a moment, “but since you don’t exist in any real-world way, your testimony won’t exactly stand up in a court of law…”

“Wanna bet?” Spike challenged again.

Thick, graying eyebrows rose to disappear under a gleaming, black hat brim. “You mean to tell me that you, a vampire, have identification, a birth certificate, a social security number…”

“Not so hard to get, actually. Got bloody good lawyers, me.”

Officer-Guy rolled his eyes as if overwrought by the very concept. “What a world we live in. What a terrible, corrupt world… Ah well. Your testimony would still be thrown out. What would you say, then, _sir?”_ His last word came out with a very mocking stress. “That you identified your location by smell?”

_“I_ would say,” Buffy interrupted, very tired at being ignored, “that I recognized it because I lived here for years, for one thing. So would my other friend here. Two ‘real world people’ backing him up would definitely help…”

“Ah, yes,” Officer-Guy interrupted, sounding amused. “A former juvenile delinquent, most recently known for leading a worldwide girl-gang and robbing banks before dropping off the face of the earth for the last nine months…”

Buffy blinked, stymied. This asshole knew _exactly_ who she was. /Damn./

“…And a lesbian with a penchant for computer hacking, with very questionable friends and a knack for somehow being on the scene for some highly unusual and sometimes very destructive events…”

/How does being a lesbian somehow make Wil less trustworthy in court?/ Though, granted, the rest was kind of tough to get around. And, Buffy supposed, stepping back, a lot of people were still pretty prejudiced about that kind of thing. She’d practically forgotten about it by now, but... Yeah.

Not that this was ever going to go to court, thank goodness.

Willow looked deeply taken aback. “Who the hell are _you?”_

“Oh. I’m sorry. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is General Voll. I’m very glad to finally make your acquaintance, Ms. Rosenburg, Ms. Summers…” His eyes jerked to Spike’s, but he didn’t bother to include ‘the vampire’ in his introductions. He even did that thing where his gaze slid away in that irritating way that made Spike—not to mention Buffy—stiffen in offense. “You are very much correct, in one respect. This is a secret facility, masquerading as something else entirely; and it will stay that way, whatever you might want to say in any testimony. Not that you will be leaving. Because you are, whatever your grounds for coming, trespassing on private property, and as such we will be detaining you downstairs where your, ah…” His eyes dropped to Ethan Rayne’s askew body lay. “…Associate dwelt. Of course, no one knows where you are, so I have my doubts you will ever escape. It is quite thoroughly shielded against magickal interference, of course, and...”

Spike roared, inarticulate but clear on his opinion about another government incarceration. 

“My sentiments exactly, honey.” Buffy hefted the axe. “Sorry, Mr. Voll…”

_“General_ , please, young woman. And did you say, ‘honey’? Please tell me that you aren’t consorting with the vampire. I mean, I know that you’re a demon yourself, and your dossier says that you’ve dallied with bloodsuckers in the past…”

/Oh my God, Riley; did you _report_ that?/

“…But one might think even a delinquent such as yourself would have the self-esteem at some point in your…”

Buffy was really starting to get tired of people judging her sex life. “You want another one today, Spike?” She was maybe only half-joking. God, she was tired. 

“Can I just kill him? Full up.” Spike, maybe not so much with the joking.

Really, Buffy was kind of running out of room to care. “Do it together?” 

“Brilliant.” 

Probably she wouldn’t let them go all the way and actually _kill_ him. Probably. Accidents could happen, though.

“You sound very confident for people who are surrounded, outnumbered, held down by superior firepower, and whose only exit is back to levels utterly magickally shielded…”

Willow sighed heavily. “We aren’t there now,” she informed him wearily, and lifted her hands. 

Buffy took that as a signal. She dodged hard to the right. Ducked, rolled to the wall.

Reading her intent, Spike did the same in the same instant, to the left. As they broke, the magickal shield went down. Bullets began to fly in a belated spray. And in the midst of them, Willow stood, the barrage splitting around her like the Red Sea to zing and ricochet off of the walls on either side. Her hair was dark again, her eyes; and from her fingers, an arcing web of lightning began to skip from skull to skull and gun to gun. 

Soldiers began to keel over or run, right and left. Screams echoed through the corridor as overheated weapons were dropped from sizzling hands, as ricochets took them in shoulders, in butts, in thighs. 

In seconds, the entire squad or whatever was either running or on the ground groaning. Including General Voll, who lay on his back, gripping his knee with teeth bared as Buffy, coming to her feet with Spike at her back, approached. Willow closed from the other side, still all dark and crackly. “You still got enough left to get us out of here, Wil?”

“If we get to a room with less shielding.” Her voice was completely unemotional. “We’re close. I can just follow the recession in power.”

“Okay, great. Go ahead and let him go. We’ve got him.”

Wil nodded once and dropped her hand. The crackles died down to faint pops and ceased, like a fireplace ticking down at the end of a long evening. 

The smell of ozone slowly faded. Voll looked up at them with hate in his eyes. “Unnatural…” he spat. “Demonic…”

“Bored now…” 

“I know, right?” Sighing, Buffy shoved the Scythe up under the man’s chin. “What’s your deal, anyway? You just the Initiative leftovers? Those people who took over but called it another name? I know you’re still running around killing demons, but what’s your ish with me? I mean, Slayers are doing you a solid, helping out…”

“Buffy…” Spike murmured, and poked at the jerk with the point at the top of his axe. The once-perfect uniform was open, pressed cotton shirt torn around the buttons. Buffy saw a kind of weird, incised mark over the man’s left breast; over his heart. The edges of a familiar pattern. A four-pointed star. A little bit of a line. Part of an arc.

Bending, she tore his shirt open. Voll winced; but it was too late. Because, crap. He totally had that marking on his chest. The one from her Slayer dream; the one Ethan had told her to remember, and the one Xander and Wil said they’d seen on the bodies of a bunch of soldiers watching the castle up in Scotland. 

And the guy had had it cut into his flesh. Just, wow. “What _is_ that? And haven’t you heard of tattoos? Because scarification is kind of a step beyond.”

Faded hazel eyes met hers. Glittered with hate. “That is your Twilight. Your ending. Twilight is coming. Twilight for you and your Slayers…”

It echoed in her head like a ricochet. _‘Twilight is coming…’_

“…We have to wipe all of you out. You’re demons, and you’re too powerful.” The General’s voice rose, gathering steam, hit some kind of fever pitch of passion. “Once you’re not distracted by fighting other demons anymore you’re gonna come after us humans. You’ll create a master race and wipe us out. We must and will destroy you first, before you can destroy us…”

/Okay, crazypants./ “Um, wow. You’re like the anti-Scourge.”

Her blasé response halted the nutso diatribe before it could really wind up into spitting and moaning or something. “What?” 

“Never mind.” Pushing herself to her feet, Buffy pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead for a moment, then sighed and leaned back a little against Spike. She was about done. 

Without another word, Spike took over the axe-threatening duties, before the jerk could shift, start to rise. “Humans created _us_ , you numbnuts,” Buffy went on wearily, eyes closed. “To protect _you_. You have no idea how hard it is to fight our programming just enough to avoid killing our own kind; even long enough to talk to them and realize we have anything in common with them.” At her back, Spike rumbled something pained. /Yeah, I know William./ This was just… Really? It was like some kind of nightmare. “Much less to realize that maybe humans aren’t perfect angels.” /God knows that one took me forever./ 

“Also, we don’t… create a race. We don’t breed to increase our numbers.” /You complete dickhead./ “If you try to kill us off you’ll just make more of us. That’s the only way to make more Slayers; to kill us.” Clearly this doofus didn’t know a single thing about what he thought he was fighting. Though, to be fair, Buffy wasn’t entirely sure if it would work that way anymore, or if they had used up all the potential Potentials ever, so that was it for a generation or so. /Still, best not to tell him that./ Shaking her head, she forced her eyes wider to regard the military zealot with tired conviction. “We’re not gonna turn against you, stupid. We’re not made that way. And we’re not going to take over or anything dumb like that.” /Heck, we’re probably at permanent capacity, either way./ “You’re the ones who are thinking like a master race; because you’re scared of us, not the other way around.”

Her words had all the impact of a feather. “You’re a danger. We can’t rest till you’re destroyed.” 

So incredibly charming. Basically he was a male Maggie Walsh. Lovely. “Well,” she muttered, closing her eyes again as she addressed lover and oldest friend, “that’s just nice, isn’t it. Make a person into a weapon, then kill her because you’re afraid she’s more powerful than you are. Sweet.” She exhaled in exasperation and twitched the hand holding the dangling Scythe. “God, it’s been a long day. Kinda wanna kill him.” These whole Buffy-vs-the-Military things never ended well. If you took out the leader, sometimes it was like beheading a serpent. Though, granted, there was no proof he was the ultimate leader, so…

Spike snorted into her hair. “Might be confirming his prejudices, pet.” 

“Yeah.” Well. First time for everything, even regret for not being allowed to kill a human. Well, okay. She’d regretted not killing Warren, so second time? “I guess so. Let’s just leave.” 

“If you say so, Love.” There was a low, calculated, ringing _thud_ as her guy rendered the idiot General unconscious, and then a cool, dry hand cupped her elbow to lead her away. “Which way, Red? We need to make tracks.”

“This way. Watch your step.”

Buffy cracked her eyelids just enough to ensure she didn’t trip over any bodies as they maneuvered past the unconscious forms of the soldiers Willow had dispatched. She could hear the disgust warring with urgency in Spike’s voice. “Always summat, huh?”

“You know.” Something hit her as they stepped over the last of the gauntlet. “Oh, wait! Ethan…”

“Got him,” Willow answered calmly. Buffy’s head jerked around, and she saw the long, gaunt corpse floating alongside them. 

“Oh. Thank you, Wil.”

Willow nodded slightly, though clearly she wasn’t sparing much concentration anymore for anything but essentials. She was probably damn near as exhausted as Buffy was.

A few feet down the hall and to the right was a door; as nondescript as the rest, except double, and wood-paneled this time instead of stainless. Like a boardroom. Something must’ve been special about it, though, because Willow stopped dead. “Here.”

/Alright-y, then./ “Is it unlocked?”

Spike gave it a shove about where a knob should be. Grunted. Tugged out his keycard and tried it out at the little console beside the portal

_Bloop_. Red.

Crap.

With a low snarl, Spike banged on it with a fist, dead center. “Is now,” he muttered as it gapped open. It didn’t break into pieces, though, and as the wood dented, Buffy could see that it had a steel-reinforced core, a lot of little bars that had electronically locked it together.

Man, Spike was supremely pissed. Probably that was mostly fueled by worry for her. “Good thing you ate.”

“Get you fed up soonest, pet.” He shoved his axe in the gap, started wrenching to open the thing.

Buffy needed it. As she got the Scythe in beneath the bars to help him she could feel herself fading fast. She was mostly just grateful Willow had taken on the battle for them back there, because if she’d had to fight… she’d probably be on the floor right now. 

The door finally gapped enough for them to enter, and Buffy forced her eyes to assess her surroundings as they squeezed one-by-one into the room, the floating body preceding them. It looked like some kind of strategy room or main council chamber; all covered in maps and high-tech projectors and stuff. On one wall was a painful, high-def projection of the Sunnydale crater. To one side of the hole on the sort of northeast side—sort of in the vicinity of what had once been Parma Park, and where there was still a little bit of mixed eucalyptus-and-scrub-oak forest—was a dot of a building with an arrow pasted to it, a tag over the arrow that said, ‘Drextalcorp’. 

The Twilight symbol was all over everything; etched onto the center of the long table, on the backs of every chair, on the wall above the whiteboard. Like, everywhere. Just, wow. Was this some kind of ‘He-Man Slayer-Haters’ fan club? 

The instant they entered the room, Spike stopped dead with his guiding hand still on Buffy’s elbow. The bond between them went absolutely still with something like shock. Maybe even dread. “Oh, sodding balls.”

“What?”

His nostrils had flared, and despite the flush of new blood in his body, his face was now abruptly inordinately pale. Every line of his being broadcasted disbelief; maybe even horror. “Bloody, bloody fuck.”

/Okay, goddammit, I don’t need anymore shocks today./ “Spike, what do you smell?”

Spike turned slowly toward her. Cupped her other elbow. Faced her down like he was about to say something even he didn’t want to hear. And when he spoke, his voice was rough as hell. And, woah. His game face had fled utterly. “Love. Hate to break this to you, but Peaches has been in this room.” 

Whatever she thought she was about to hear, that was so definitely not it. “W…what?” 

“A lot. And recently.”

Her exhausted mind whirled. Struggled dumbly to come up with something that made sense. “You mean, you think he’s held captive here, or…”

Spike shook his head slowly, willing to look for explanations with her; but everything in his being told her that he dreaded his own answers. “No. Nothing of him down by those cells. And nothing that smells like fear, or anxiety, or…” He actually bit his lip, eyes wholly unguarded now on hers. “No. This smells self-assured and…” A frown slipped over taut features; confused and now mildly incensed. “This is the scent of my grandsire when he’s in charge of the sodding situation.” The beginnings of betrayal began to wind through the claim between them.

Buffy stared. It just didn’t make a single bit of goddamned sense. “You can’t be serious.”

Spike merely stared back, his eyes earnest on hers as they had ever been. “I know you think I hate the bugger, but I wouldn’t make somethin’ like this up. Hell; even _I_ wouldn’t think this of him.” His voice tightened. So did the bond; with a feeling of pleading and regret and pain. “But Buffy… if there’s one scent I know very well, it’s Angelus in charge of a room.” Buffy winced automatically, and a note of impatience touched Spike’s voice. “Or Angel, if you like. All comes down to the same sodding thing. If he’s being coerced or summat, he smells of stress, and there’s not a hint of that in here.”

“Then he’s lost his soul.” It wasn’t a question. It couldn’t be.

Spike rolled his eyes. “Since when is it Angelus’ style to help some military gits hunt Slayers, pet?”

She had to admit, that didn’t really wash. But… “Since when is it _Angel’s?”_

He had no answer for that.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Dun dun duuuuunnnnn...  
(seriously, that whole storyline, tho... Headcanoning some kind of motivation for Angel that actually made sense for him to rationalize it for his own brain so that he could feel righteous about the stuff that he does while doing it? OMFG. I mean, it just NEVER, EVER remotely made any sense, no matter what they said to justify it in the comix. It was insane. IN. SANE. And they passed it off as something Buffy was like... 'Oh, I get it, I forgive you for all the death and destruction, you did it all for me, you're wonderful, thank you for giving me a lovely memory of another brain-raped seduction...'  
WTAF)  
  
Sorry, I just can't. The (blinding il)logic of those writers is literally beyond my comprehension. Points NEED to be made in here, which is why we're bothering to even follow this idiot storyline. To show how it DOESN'T MAKE ONE JOT OF SENSE.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright; really need to get caught up on comments from all you wonderful humans, but in the meantime, let's see where our (in comparison to the comics) vampire-sense-enhanced foreknowledge of things Angel takes us when it comes to that Twilight bull, kick the meat of that plot into gear... and set in motion one of my absolute favorite chapters (upcoming), with regard to our dear, stubborn friend, Rupert Giles, who has a lot of cognitive memorabilia to catalogue and reorganize into their proper slots so that we can start to get us a family again.

  
“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”

* * *

Wil got them back to Spain before she collapsed. Buffy wasn’t far behind her. 

Xander was there waiting, clearly on pins and needles. Buffy was seeing everything through a graying haze, but she did pick up his response. He took one look at the two flattened women sprawled over the bed, shot a look at Spike, and let out a very anxious breath. “I know what Wil needs when she’s overextended. What does Buffy need?”

“Food. Rest. I’ll fill you in.”

“Yeah. Good. Yeah. I’ll…” Footsteps receded at a run.

The bed dipped as Spike laid down next to Buffy. Lifted her head gently, shoved a pillow beneath it. “Just rest, pet. Keep your eyes closed. I’ll take this…” She was relieved of the Scythe.

The minute it left her fingers, the walls crashed in. 

She came to at some point later in Spike’s arms, him cradling her, the smell of food under her nose. “C’mon, Love. Eat summat, yeah, before you pass out again? ‘F I have to take you to hospital after all this I’ll soddin’ stake meself.”

She lifted shaking fingers, clutched blindly at what turned out to be nice, crusty bread soaked in more broth; warm but not too hot. Made a face, but accepted it because she wasn’t sure when she had been more starving. It was really good, actually, and each mouthful seemed to translate to almost instant life in her veins. She wondered mazily if this was how it felt for Spike to feed, if in super slow-motion. Opened her mouth to ask… 

Another hunk of broth-soaked bread was shoved into her face by an over-attentive vampire, and okay, she didn’t need to be _fed_ , dammit. Solicitous bastard. 

Opening her eyes, she glared daggers at him. He just grinned heedlessly back at her, daring her to protest and looking thoroughly delighted that she had the energy to be pissed off. 

Asshole. 

Swallowing, she straightened. Batted his hands away. Made to say something biting about how she didn’t need a caregiver… and caught the twinkle in his eye. /Dick./ “Spike, for God’s…”

“Takin’ it as a sign. You can talk, you can eat. Got a lot of bread here, still.” He squinted down at his lap. “Maybe a half a cup left of the broth. Expect you to finish it…”

She swatted halfheartedly in his general direction, now thoroughly disgruntled… and had her hand knocked away without effort. It was humiliating. Especially when he just laughed. “That’s still shaking. When you can actually hit me, I’ll stop and you can take it out of my arse, yeah?”

“Are you kidding me, right now?”

With a sigh, he let go of her limp fist. “Scared the shit out of me, Slayer.”

Now she was paying attention, she realized that was true. Echoes of terror were still there, on the edges of the unseen umbilicus between them. “What? I just passed out a little…”

“Could barely feel you. Think you were goin’ into some sort of bloody coma. Had to pull you out of it with the claim, keep your head above water till you could do it yourself.” She could hear the tremble in his voice, underneath the surface calm. No bravado today. Not in front of her. “Right terrified I wouldn’t be able to, since I couldn’t before, when you were in the dream, yeah?” He pulled in a breath through flared nostrils, and his open palm quivered slightly against her waist. “If you were a vamp I’d’ve fed you from my own body, but I can’t soddin’ do that with you… so just eat, please, Buffy?” It came out with a pleading note, and Spike shouldn’t have to beg her. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be. Just stay. And let me help.”

Closing her eyes, she swallowed against the naked terror in his voice. And let him shove another hunk of soaked bread into her trembling palm. It dripped on her clothes, but whatever. 

After maybe fifteen minutes or something the food stopped coming, and she felt strong enough to sit up. She was still starving, but she wasn’t shaking anymore. Spike reluctantly let her go, helped her brush crumbs off of her borrowed, broth-spotted shirt. “Ugh.” When it came to the dampness factor, their efforts were mostly ineffectual.

“Here.” Slipping out from under her, he left her to lean against the wall, walked away from the bed to fetch her a new shirt. One of hers, this time, instead of one of his oversized tees. 

As she struggled into it, she watched the lines of his body. In the midst of changing his own Ethan-soiled shirt he was relaxing a little, though still haunted. “I didn’t think it’d get that bad,” she apologized softly.

“Didn’t know you’d be turned into a vessel for a magicks dump,” he allowed with a little shrug, and turned back to her. His eyes were grim, expression set. 

“Uh. Where’s…” She looked around the room, frowning. When she’d lost track of things, Willow had been right beside her.

“Harris has her out on the couch. Feedin’ her up. Prescription’s about the same, I guess, when she overdoes it. That and some spell or other as is up to his abilities; bit of smoke and chantin’ and roses all round.”

Buffy didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to laugh, but…

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Slayer…”

He was gonna think she was making fun. “I just wondered. You know. About the things you do say and the things you don’t say. I mean, there are some sayings that I don’t know if they’re really even real English things, because I heard them from, you know, Disney movies. But I still somehow expect you to say them sometimes.”

“Oh hell.” Rolling his eyes, Spike dropped back to the foot of the bed. “What did you expect me to say, just then?”

“Bob’s your uncle?”

He gaped at her for a moment, then groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I’m gonna go stick my buggerin’ face in the nearest sunbeam.”

“Oh, c’mon. It sounds like it fits.”

“I’m not an old geezer collects spare parts for Triumphs. Or some fat cherub in a park feeding pigeons, or…”

“Okay?” She hadn’t meant to totally exasperate him.

“Never mind, Slayer.” Shaking his head, he held out a hand. “Let’s go get you somethin’ more substantial, yeah?”

She was definitely down with that.

As they passed through the beaded curtain into the living room Buffy noted that Wil was upright, waving something over her face with two hands. The remains of something smoky hovered in a bowl in front of her on the battered coffee table, filling the room with a haze of fragrant smoke, a faint bitter tang surrounded by notes of sweetness and aromatic tinges. Flanking the bowl were her laptop and an empty plate, the latter populated with mostly just crumbs. That was probably of the good. Wil looked slightly less dead than she had earlier, if still pale and shaken. /Like you do when you’ve just been tortured./ She barely noted them as they passed, though Xander shot them a slightly-worried-slash-acknowledging nod. 

After a short rummage through the fridge, they rejoined their friends in the living room, positioned themselves in front of the armchair catty-corner to the couch. It was Spike’s favorite daytime haunt, as it was safe from stray sunbeams from the slider out to the water, and he could still see the TV from that vantage. As Buffy set down her plate he fell back, snagged her around the waist, and dragged her down with him, because he was Mr. Snuggly Overprotective Mated Demon today. 

“Oof. Warning, much?” No way she was going to actually admit to being secretly pleased. He could read her reactions, already knew. She still had _some_ kind of rep to keep up, dammit.

He, of course, ignored her protestations for form’s sake. “Eat up, Love. You’re weak as a kitten.”

“Okay, you know what? If you keep insulting me…”

He leaned around her, grabbed up the plate, shoved it unceremoniously into her lap. “Lovely kitten. Very sharp claws. Sexy and nimble. Needs feeding up before playtime.” All humor fled. “Eat? Please?”

With a put-upon sigh, Buffy surrendered. But only because she was still really, really hungry. “I want you to know that you’re officially a bully.”

“Persuasive and highly selfish.”

Well, when he put it that way…

Over there on the couch, Xander muttered something about people who didn’t know when to lay off. 

“Oh, please. You didn’t have to put up with the relentless flirt-fest _in the middle of constant terrifying danger_ at that Initiative 2.0 complex. ‘Oh, Buffy, look at me and my amazing fingers, does it make you think of anything?’ ‘Oh, um, oh, yes, Spike, as a matter of fact, it does, maybe we should just make out instead of finding a way out of the evil government lair…’”

Xander choked on the water he was sipping. Spike lifted a couple of said fingers to salute Willow in a genial kind of way. Buffy just rolled her eyes and shoved a hunk of cheese into her mouth. 

“Jealous, Red?”

“Oh, please,” Willow repeated, scornfully. “As if.”

Smirking so loud Buffy could _hear_ it, Spike leaned forward to rub his nose in Buffy’s hair, just at the nape of her neck. He was still pretty much in that state where he needed constant reminders of her continued wellbeing. Scenting her was the best way to accomplish the task.

Despite her general state of wired exhaustion—and maybe because of the horrific events of the day—Buffy found his overall vampire-ness pretty shiver-inducing at the moment.

“Drextalcorp!” It exited her mouth abruptly, as if the memory had been jarred from her brain by her mate’s osculations. Damn, it was tough to make an announcement around a mouthful of cheese.

“Excuse me?” Jolted out of her pique, Willow sounded utterly nonplussed.

Spike had gone all stiff behind her. “Yeah, that’s right,” he muttered, a little grim-sounding now. “‘Member seeing that. Off to the northeast side, wasn’t it, pet? In what was left of the woods…”

“Yeah. Do you think that’s where we…”

Willow was starting to get slightly excited by osmosis. “Buffy, what…”

Spike answered before she could. “That Voll bastard. Said we were trespassing on private property, ‘cept it wasn’t officially government property. Not on paper, like. Then, that room we used to portal back? Big bloody shot of the hellmouth on it, and a legend there, plain as day, said we were in somethin’ called ‘Drextalcorp.’”

“I still can’t believe you guys were all the way back in Sunnydale…” Xander murmured, sounding floored.

“Well, I mean, it wasn’t, really,” Willow interrupted. She sounded somewhat revived, if still incredibly weary. “You know. Just a crater.”

“I mean… yeah, but you know what I mean. ‘Cause, like, who _does_ that?”

“Military wackos who can’t let it go,” Buffy muttered, and leaned back against Spike. “Maybe they don’t know there’re other hellmouths. I dunno. But they’re for sure after the Slayers, Xan, so you and the other leaders need to fort up.”

He looked troubled, but not shocked. Obviously Willow had already given him the gist. “Yeah. I just… Wow. That’s just so… I mean… _Ugh!”_

“Think about it,” Buffy murmured back, and fought to shrug it off. “If the Watchers Council was still around, they’d probably do the same thing. We were always a bad bet for them; a ‘keep the tool under control but don’t let it take over ‘cause it’s too dangerous’ type of thing. I mean, look how they acted when I started trying to control my own life. If they knew we were gonna outnumber ‘em someday they’d freak, just from the odds. They were scared to death of what could happen if they didn’t control us every second. Us in charge of our own destinies, being treated as people with free will...” She lifted the glass to her lips, took a long swig of water. “You know their whole schtick was, ‘don’t let it know what it is, where its power comes from, or it might join forces with the baddies’.” 

“Well, I mean…” Xander hesitated. “Faith kinda showed us that sometimes that can be… You know. A little dangerous.”

Buffy really didn’t want to get into that in too much depth, but, “I think a lot of things would’ve been different with Faith if _we_ ’d’ve been different with Faith, but we can’t change that now. Anyway…”

“Wait, are you saying what she did was _our_ fault?”

God, she was still so tired. But. “Xander, everyone wants to belong somewhere and feel loved.” Felt Spike’s sharp intake of breath behind her, and yes, dammit, understanding Spike, and understanding herself, had helped her, finally, to understand her sister Slayer. All too late, but she understood. Heck; if it had been _Dawn_ at that age, with that power, living in a _motel_ … /Screwing whatever stupid guys, just to feel wanted…/ 

Buffy had to fight down a shudder just to keep talking. The adult perspective really, really changed things a lot. And it made her wonder why Giles and Wesley, as the adults in the picture, hadn’t done more for Faith. /God, _Mom_ tried more than they did, and she only knew what was going on from the edges. I was just a kid. I wasn’t gonna get it. I was too caught up in my own crap. We’re all the center of the universe when we’re sixteen, seventeen… even when we don’t have someone telling us we’re ‘the Chosen One’. But _Faith_ was, by then, wasn’t she? Or we both were. Or something. And they—we all—treated her like a backup, or an extra, or…/ 

/Worthless. God, I’m sorry, Faith./ “She was just as much the Slayer as I was, and she had _no_ one on her side. No Watcher, no friends, no home, no family. Who gave her a place to belong and told her she was worth something?”

Xander subsided back onto the couch, gaping. He of all people should get the edges of that, considering where he’d grown up. 

Willow was watching Buffy with a strange expression on her drawn, tired face. “You’re saying it’s not about what a Slayer is, but about how people come at you that makes a difference.”

/It did for me, Wil; before, with you guys, and…/ Cool fingers, sliding up and down her wrist, soothing. /After. When there was no one else. So, yeah. Half a gold star, Wil, but do you really get it?/ “Exactly. But the Watchers treated us like tools, because they knew we were their tame demons on leashes, even though they didn’t tell us that; because they didn’t want us to know. The military knows we know, and they’re just as scared. If it wasn’t them, it’d be the Council. It’s always gonna be someone; ready to eliminate their weapon as too dangerous a bargain.” She straightened, bearing down on her mate’s fingers in pursuit of strength. “But I wasn’t just a talking about Slayers, really. _Anyone’s_ gonna react based on how you come at them.”

Spike inhaled sharply… and then stopped breathing entirely. 

/Yes, William. I know. I did it to you, and so did Angel./ “And you know what? Not that it’s started here, but it needs to end here. This is interspecies warfare. A fight for survival. They made us, now they wanna wipe us out. And no offense, but I think we have the right to survive, so I say… we do something that’s been a long time coming.”

Xander straightened too, looking deeply suspicious. “Buff, what…”

Spike exhaled abruptly, sounding awed. “Christ, Buffy, are you…”

“Yeah.”

Willow’s eyes darted from her to Spike and back, clearly sensing something enormous. “What do you propose, Buffy?”

On the unseen tether that bound her to the world, shock faded to amazement, and then to strength. Shared strength. Spike was with her. He would support her, follow her to the end. Even if it was foolhardy, even if it was insane, he would help her. They had the goodwill of some, now. It was a start. 

The fingers of his free hand trailed along under her hair, brushed her collar. The nape of her neck tingled with the step they were about to take. “I think,” she told them all very quietly, “it’s about time the demons stopped fighting among themselves in other people’s names, and started standing up for their right to survive. We _all_ share this planet. We’ve been sharing it since the Old Ones left.” She leaned back against Spike and felt something fill her; a certitude she had not felt since she had left Hell-A. A _calling_. “Maybe it’s about time we act like it.”

***

“Is she _serious?”_

“What the bloody hell do you think?”

“She sounded serious to me, Xander.”

“But… Okay, I get that _some_ demons are okay, but…”

“You got a common enemy, Harris, you come to terms…”

“Humans aren’t…”

“Not sodding humans, you nit; the military. It’s an institution, not a species.”

“But… how do you explain the difference when a bunch of other species are just gonna see food and decide it doesn’t matter which ones they eat? The ones in uniforms, or…”

“Leave that up to the Slayers, yeah? Just think, Harris. Might be just the thing we need to end this war once and for all. You don’t think Buffy’s just gonna turn the buggers loose on the human population, yeah? Slayer’s’ll still be the sheriffs in town. They’re the damn bulwark in between species. ‘S just, this’ll be a way to finally bridge the bloody gap for a change.”

The debate raged on on the other side of the wall. Buffy bit her lip while she undressed, moved to the shower. She badly needed it, and at this point they were just hashing out points they had already gone over about fifteen times; Xander incredulous, Willow surprisingly willing and fascinated by the intellectual puzzle… and Spike, as always, one-thousand-percent on her side, no matter what. 

In fact, he was so on her side he was willing to continue having her back out there instead of joining her, which was kind of surprising to Buffy at this point. For one, she knew he also wanted a shower, after lugging that body around. For another, considering his current state, he was no doubt dying for a little personal time, if he was making an effort to keep it to himself. Between feeding-arousal and almost three days disconnected and in danger, he was subsuming a by this point probably desperate need to reclaim her as real and alive and safe. On top of that there was the high that came of battle, and the stress of having been made captive and Amy’s having made sport of him in a vulnerable situation. That kind of thing tended to make him want to recommit to her, prove himself in the most primitive way possible. It was all pretty much the perfect storm for some quick and dirty intimacy; especially since he was still mostly demon-side-up out there, if with his William-ish, nurturing persona on full display as he fought to roughly cajole her back to full-strength. 

And there, she realized as she fingered her necklace, still hanging on the mirror, was the reason. Demon-y Spike nurtured in a slightly different way than if he were soul-side-up, but he was almost equally sweet and gentle about it; just more forceful and less retiring. And he would never push if he thought she was tired, or… 

Well. He just wouldn’t push, period. He was probably just trying to act in deference to her variable state of semi-exhaustion, which… to be fair, was real. Despite the fact that she had honestly done little more than sleep for upwards of three days, and despite her bellyful of food, her battery was at a seriously low charge now that she no longer had the Scythe in her hands. /Guess that’s what happens when you head into battle with nothing but a bowl of broth in your gut and then become a vessel for someone else’s power./ She was still, by the way, a little skeeved out by that whole thing.

Pulling the necklace from the mirror, she tugged it over her head like a prophylactic. Felt promptly reassured when the weight of it landed against her breastbone and bobbed there during the standard work of adjusting water temps. 

“…For _you_ to say. You’ve got enough human in you to listen! Even before you became soul-boy you were always like the tamest, most lovey-dovey, dopey demon in the history of the universe…”

“Oi!”

“But what about the type of demons who sacrifice human babies for sport, or to try to bring those crazy Old Ones back, like, every Tuesday? I mean, this is _nuts!_ Does anyone but me realize how _nuts_ this is?”

“Xan, I’m pretty sure Buffy’s not gonna try to make an alliance with anything that isn’t going to play nice. I mean, she’s still gonna put humans first…” 

“Wil, I don’t know if you noticed, but Buffy’s changed a little in the last few years. What she’s gonna to do is win her war…”

/Oh, wow, Xander./ Buffy ducked her head under the spray and tried not to listen anymore.

“You listen to me, boy. The Slayer’s not gonna sacrifice the world for this. She’s tryin’ to save _everyone;_ even the buggers wanna kill all your girls, yeah? ‘Cause if you lot go to war with them, more of ‘em are gonna die than if she can bring a superior force to the bloody table and scare ‘em off, yeah? I mean, if you were leadin’ a military force, who would you attack? A few hundred girls armed with axes and swords and shite, or the same girls backed by a few thousand soddin’ demons?”

“Oh. Wow. I guess… I never thought of…”

“Start thinkin’, Harris. Buffy’s a bleedin’ tactician, for fucksake. She’s had to be to survive, yeah? Innit time you learned to trust the woman, all the years you’ve followed her?”

“I do! Didn’t you hear my speech back at Revello when…”

“Heard it. Then saw you lot kick her out of her own buggerin’ house…”

/Well, shit./ Despite the distance of over a year, Buffy flinched inwardly. The fury Spike had felt on her behalf over that moment's weakness and confusion-become-betrayal had clearly never dimmed. She could feel his rage, roaring bright as it had been that long-ago night, from here.   
  
There was a longish pause from her erstwhile compatriots; probably while they, too, flinched back from the wrath in Spike's face and voice, before Xander spoke up into the stunned silence. “Okay, but that was a whole other…”

“Spike, I know you’re still mad about that, but that was a long time ago…”

“Red, you don’t have a bloody leg to stand on in this one, and you know it, so shut your gob." Spike's tones remained quietly thunderous. "You’ve always wanted to lead, deep inside, since you got all juiced up. Brasses you right off no one recognizes that you have as much in you. You’re right glad she’s gone, sometimes, so you can stand up in her place.”

“That… That is so not true.”

_“Sure.”_ Man, could Spike ever sound withering, when he wanted to. “Look. Some of those Army buggers might end up killin’ themselves if they’re too obsessed to listen to reason; same as with those Initiative sods. Extremism’s like that. Saw it with the Nazis. But you can’t let that kind of thing sit, or it’ll destroy everyone, yeah? Got to do somethin’ now, before it gets out of hand; especially if they’ve got soddin’ _Angel_ in there givin’ ‘em pointers…”

Just the thought of that made Buffy’s brain shy away. She simply couldn’t contain the reality of it, so she focused on the current moment. The thing she could control, while she went on mechanically with the business of her shower. She had to get Xander on her side and committed. He led the Slayer HQ now. If she didn’t have him solidly with her… /You need to _get_ this, Xander. We’re on the same side here. Humans, demons, hybrids like us; the vamps and Slayers. They’re trying to pit us all against each other, just like the Old Ones and the Watchers have done from the start. And I am _over_ it./

If there was even a chance she could capitalize on this Twilight thing to end the zillion-years-war between the worlds… she would take it and run.

When she left the shower, she felt sure of her ground, ready to fight for the necessary. She needed her leaders on her side. However, it appeared Wil and Spike had Xander well in hand by then; or at least, he wasn’t Mr. Protest Too Much anymore. He was silent, if looking a little hard-bitten and tight-lipped where he sat stiffly on the couch. 

“I found Drextalcorp, Buffy,” Willow informed her as she moved to rejoin her guy. “It’s supposedly a recycling company. They own about twenty acres of land a couple miles to the southeast of the crater.” 

Frowning, Buffy made a quick detour toward the curtains. They were open a little too much; probably a byproduct of their having deposited Ethan Rayne’s body out there on the portico when they’d first arrived. The gap left a wide strip of sunlight on the floor, and it was creeping around toward the couch, dangerously close to Spike’s booted toes as it split around the feet of the coffee table. As she twitched the protective coverings shut again she glimpsed the long bundle lying still under the awning. Wil had recovered enough to put some kind of spell on it, or at least there was a faint shimmer over the remains. Probably something to preserve it. It was kind of warm out there.

They’d thrown a blanket over it. Thank goodness. 

Turning back, Buffy headed toward Spike, caught the solemn nod of gratitude. He could’ve done it himself, was probably about to, but he’d have had to creep around the edges of the room from an oblique angle, make a big production of it. She’d saved him the trouble. 

“Huh,” she muttered as she settled herself back into his lap. “That’s a dumb cover. What the heck can you recycle at the edge of a huge crater?”

“Actually, it’s a pretty good front if you think about it. A lot of reclamation you can do when a whole town falls into a sinkhole. Salvage for days…” Buffy blinked at Xander, caught his shrug. “What? Good work if you can get it. Not that I think that’s actually what they’re doing, but… Y’know.”

She nodded after a sec. “Speaking of salvage, I’m glad there’s a spell on Ethan. He’d probably get pretty ripe without it. Don’t know how you had the strength, Wil…”

Wil smiled slightly. She was looking a hair less haggard as she sipped at a glass of water. “Actually, that was Xander. I talked him through it, but he supplied the mojo.”

“Oh.” Resettling her gaze the guy in question Buffy smiled slightly. “Well. Look at you.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“Comin’ right along, innit Harris? That’s some complicated shite, pausin’ the natural order of things. Stoppin’ time…” Spike actually sounded impressed.

“I mean, it’s really localized. And the spell was basically baby-talk, the way Wil boiled it down…”

Wil pinched his knee.

“Yeah. I mean, thanks. It’s… nice to know I can do something I didn’t know I could… Yeah.”

Spike’s voice picked up a little snark. “Makes one wonder if you might have a bit o’ demon somewhere, way in the back of your family tree, like…”

Xander leaned back against the back of the couch to eye Spike along his nose. “You don’t have to be insulting just because I’m witch-boy now.”

Spike smirked. “Not an insult from my perspective, Harris. Think of it as an attempt to find common ground with a lesser being.” 

Xander blinked in stunned amazement. Spike ignored him to sniff pointedly. “Always thought there was somethin’. Maybe _eau de boca_ , but who knows. Might be summat…”

Xander switched to straight-up gaping. 

Rolling her eyes, Buffy elbowed her vampire. Making a point was one thing… and exceedingly useful. God knew she’d needed it often enough from Spike. Just trying to get a rise out of Xander, though, was stupid man-posturing and she was over it.

“The weird thing about Drextalcorp,” Willow murmured, having clearly stopped listening along in there somewhere, “is it looks totally abandoned. If you watch the GPS time-lapse, you don’t see anything happening in any of the stills. No movement, no shipments in and out, no vehicles parked there, no personnel…” Her mouth hardened into a thin, determined line, and her fingers started tapping away at the laptop. “Which, if it’s a functional salvage company, you’d think there’d be trucks hauling stuff away constantly, but not so much. It seems totally defunct…”

“Maybe they already got everything?”

Spike scoffed at Xander. “Cleaned up the whole buggerin’ town, did they, in a year and a half?”

“Well, if it’s a military cleanup operation… What? It could happen!”

“I think…” Willow hazarded, “it might be out of phase with time.”

Buffy held up a hand to forestall the man-banter. “Out of phase…”

Willow lifted her head, looking troubled. “Unless they have some kind of gopher-hole exit really far off this grid somewhere, they couldn’t move around the kind of troops we saw in there without something showing up on here. Which is possible, I guess, since most of the installation was obviously underground, taking advantage of what’s left of the hellmouth tunnel system…”

“If they’re using the Initiative model, that would so be their game-plan.”

Spike growled low in his throat. Buffy automatically laid a hand to his thigh in quiet comfort. She was well aware of the reason thinking of that hellhole still gave him the heebee-jeebees. 

Wil looked troubled as she nodded agreement. “The thing is, if they were stationed in a place even one minute off from our time-stream—and that would really only take a slight perturbation of the magicks, something Amy could’ve done for them if she had a powerful-enough amulet—they’d be undetectable to anyone. Heck; they could even have run the regular recycling business out of it for that first year, and run the military part right over the top of it using the same facility, and no one would be the wiser, because the same stuff would be being used in a completely different temporal fold…”

Xander was nodding, clearly picking up what Willow was putting down. Which, Buffy supposed, made sense since he got it enough to do a stasis spell on a body, but Buffy was thrown. “Uh, how does that make sense? I mean, even if they’re a minute behind or a minute ahead or whatever, aren’t they still gonna run into the same, you know, stuff cluttering up the place? Like…”

“Different time-stream, pet, different reality.”

Buffy turned a little to stare at Spike, floored. “Am I the only one who doesn’t get this?”

“You deal in concrete issues, Slayer—life or bloody death—and in dream-language. ‘S why you can understand poetry. Time, math, all that shite… it’s an in-between concept. Different language. Not even my best, save I’ve lived longer, seen a few things in my day. Harris deals in math all the sodding time, doin’ construction an’ the like; and he lived with Anya. She spoke that language constantly.”

“Hell yeah, she did. It drove me nuts, but I guess something must’ve rubbed off…”

“And Red bends time and reality every second, doin’ what she does. I only catch onto the edges of what they understand.”

“Well.” Buffy felt grumpy and left out. “At least you only get the edges.”

Spike grinned at her, returned to her neck to give her a bolstering nuzzle. “Don’t worry, pet. Mostly I’m with you. Poetry and life, sex and death…”

“You don’t have to tell me you’re smarter and more adaptable than I am.”

The backs of his fingers slid over her cheek in a cool caress. “No way am I smarter, Love. Just read more books.”

Xander broke in, hand raised. “Excuse me. Poetry?”

Buffy lifted her eyebrows at Spike, watched the shutters come down over his azure gaze. Time to come to the rescue. “So Amy’s buy-in was this time-spell?”

Willow sounded slightly amused as she answered, as if she recognized a couple’s cop-out when she heard one. “Uh, yeah. Probably. Or at least maybe it was her buy-in for Warren…”

“I still can’t believe that asshole was there!” Xander exclaimed, diverted.

“Past bloody tense,” Spike grumbled.

“For which we all thank you, man. Waste of… Well, not skin, thanks to Wil, but, you know.”

“I’ll get on that ride,” Willow chimed in grimly. “I’m usually not the first one on the ‘let Spike eat people’ bandwagon, but that was some seriously good timing.” She bent back over her laptop, and her lips twisted in something like dark amusement. “I still can’t believe Amy was dumb enough to neglect…” Her voice trailed off, though the words ‘incomplete’ and ‘impervious’ could be heard here and there.

“Probably wasn’t expectin’ a vamp to get into the installation,” Spike opined, sounding smug about all the feeding-acceptance. He shifted underneath Buffy, and she smirked faintly. He was getting a little resurgent stiffy in remembrance of his in-battle feast. 

“You okay, there?” she whispered.

“I’ll do.”

/Of course you will./ 

“Another thing I can’t believe; that _Angel’s_ involved in this.” Xander sounded bewildered. “I mean, seriously; what’s up with that?” 

Buffy tensed, all sensual amusement fled. “We don’t know anything but that he was in the room.” /It just doesn’t make any _sense_./

Spike grunted. “We’re in a world of hurt if Sweetie-Bear’s involved…”

Okay, she got that maybe her guy might be feeling a little betrayal himself right now, but _really?_ Buffy exhaled heavily through her nose. “Spike, you know I love you right?”

“Yeah,” he answered, abruptly wary. As well he might, considering he knew very well how much he had probably stepped in it just now.

“Good. I'm glad you know that. Now can you do me a favor and stop being incredibly irritating for like maybe five minutes?”

He subsided into a huffy silence as she turned back to the makeshift strategy table. “Look. We can’t do anything about the Angel angle right now till I have a chance to corner him and ask him straight-up what’s the deal. In the meantime, we have work to do.” She lifted her eyes briskly to Wil’s. “You still have any way to get in touch with the Finns?”

“Oh. Um, yeah. I talk to Sam a lot. Riley not so much, but…”

“Great. Hit them up as soon as you’re back on a secure connection, okay? See what they know.” /And then I’ll ask Riley what the hell he was thinking, disclosing to his bosses that I have a vamp thing, because talking behind my back, much? I mean, I get that you were hurt, but _really?_ / Her ex so owed her for that one. Like, big-time.

Buffy turned back to Xander. “I need to know right now, Xan. Are you in or out?”

Faced with the question, put to him as bluntly as it had ever been, Xander sat back. Opened his mouth and shut it a few times, looking kind of queasy and gray. And then something firmed up in him, and he straightened. “Buffy… I trust you. I’ve trusted you since we were kids. If you believe in this—believe you can do this—I’ll back you to the end of the world.” His voice rang with sudden conviction.

She was _not_ going to cry. 

Maybe. It was a near thing, though. She really needed more sleep. “Okay. Then… we’re gonna need to start prepping the Slayers. Once Spike and I have the plan actually solidified I’ll let you know our approach. I’ll talk to Robin and Andrew and Giles, Vi, Rona…”

“On the bloody road again.” Spike sounded grim, weary as she felt.

/Yeah, well. Apocalypse Response. We just got dialed, dammit./ “…See if Faith wants to be involved. You two can handle your people in Scotland. You know them; how to get them to follow you, what makes ‘em tick…”

“I appreciate that, Buffy.” Xander’s voice was warm again. 

“Robin’s one thing,” Wil interrupted. “The girls. They’re used to following you, and he’ll do what you say because he’s got that whole Oedipal thing going. And obviously Andrew will do anything he’s told...”

Spike growl-muttered something about pushover poofs and making bloody phone-calls. Not that she could really blame him. 

“…But you and Giles aren’t exactly… in the best place right now. Do you think…”

Buffy nodded and pushed herself off Spike’s lap, onto her feet. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Spike blinked, came immediately to his feet to follow her all solicitously. “What… now?”

She met his eyes stoically.

“Don’t mind seein’ him in person again, is it?”

“No. It’s time.”

She was answered with a pensive nod.

“Okay,” Xander broke in, rubbing his hands together to break the taut silence. “You go to Russia, warn the G-man about this Twilight thing and Angel and the Military, ask him what he thinks we about your plan now we know what it’s all about…”

“No.” Buffy turned her head toward the long bundle on the floor in its shimmering stasis spell. “I _tell_ him what we’re going to do. Later. First I need to tell him about Ethan Rayne.”

That netted her the attention of everyone in the room. “But,” Xander stammered finally, sounding flummoxed, “wasn’t he, like, practically an enemy of Gileses or something?”

Buffy felt a faint shiver run down her spine. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I think whatever relationship they had, it was really, really complicated. And I think Giles has the right to find out in person that Ethan’s dead. And _how_ he died.”

“Oookay. Well, uh…”

Willow was watching her very closely. “Well, I mean, if you don’t want to have it out with him right now about all the rest of this stuff, I could portal over and…”

Buffy shook her head, biting her lip. “No, I think I need to do it. If you’re okay sending me.”

Spike didn’t really like the idea of her extending herself more today, but he didn’t speak up, for which she was grateful. He was letting her decide how to pace herself. 

Wil, on the other hand… “You okay to do another one in one day?” she asked her friend. “You’re looking a little rough.”

Willow frowned, and her eyes turned briefly inward in self-assessment. “I can, yeah. I’ve recovered some of my strength.” She looked a little confused, but willing. “Uh, you think he’s gonna… wanna come back with you?”

Buffy felt her eyes drawn inexorably toward the still body. “Yeah,” she answered quietly. “I think yeah.” She caught Spike’s eyes briefly, an apology there for her next words. “Better make it for two.”

Spike’s expression, his vibe, was definitely surprised. There was reluctance, for which she in no way blamed him. And… he wasn’t the only one taken off guard. They all knew she knew something they didn’t, and clearly it was throwing them. 

But there was no way she was going to explain now. Not till she had a chance to talk to Giles first. Whatever lay between those two, he deserved that courtesy from her. 

***

Willow managed the portal after all, though with a quick, mumbled chant. That alone was a testament to her level of exhaustion; that it took chanting aloud, considering her current level of skill. Despite all that, Buffy didn’t question whether she was strong enough to handle the transfer. Wil was a big girl. If she said she was, she was. 

In proof of her vast abilities, the portal to Russia opened well enough, if slowly. Buffy wasted no time stepping through, and found herself in the hallway immediately outside Giles’ study. 

Hopefully he was inside. 

Reaching for the doorknob, she turned it. Nudged the door ajar. 

Giles’ head jerked up, glasses glinting and face limned in shock in the lamplight as she left the other end of the portal to step through him there. “Buffy? Good Lord, what…”

/Right on the money, Wil. Obviously you’re still doing good enough to feel where people are./ 

Closing the door quietly behind her, between them and the shimmering portal, she faced her ex-Watcher quietly. “Hey. Ah… something’s come up.”

He set down his pen very carefully and nodded, standing. Slid his hands into his pockets, looking reserved and prepared for a very formal conversation. Which was understandable, considering how they had left things the last time they’d talked, back in July. “Ah, yes. It must have done, to have brought you all the way back here from wherever you’ve secreted yourself. What can I do to help?” He tilted his head slightly, gave it that little stutter of movement she knew so well. “Anything, of course, that you need, I will endeavor…”

It hurt that they were here, after all these years, and it made her glad that she wasn’t here for the reason that he thought. To take, and that was all. That it was personal. “Giles, I met with Ethan Rayne in a dream. He helped me to survive something…”

Whatever he had expected to hear from her, it wasn’t that. And clearly, the words had an effect, for he sort of stepped back a little like they’d hurt him, his hands leaving his pockets. Also, he had that… look about him. The one that said he was… controlling some more complex reaction. “Oh… ah? And, er… what, ah, exactly…” Then he stilled, his expression going sort of frozen in disbelief, and maybe the tiniest shreds of… hope? “Hold on a moment. Did you say he helped you with, ah, something?”

He sounded incredulous. 

God, there was so much buried there, she could almost believe… /Go carefully here, Buffy. And watch./ She wasn’t a kid anymore. She would be able to tell, right? “I was trapped in a Slayer dream for almost three days, by Amy. She’s working for the Army…”

“I beg your _pardon?”_

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you the rest later. The short version is that symbol Xander told you about, the one carved on those soldiers? It means “Twilight”. It’s some kind of anti-Slayer project, because the military thinks we’re going to become some master race and go after humanity once we run out of demons to kill…”

“Good Lord!”

“Yeah. I kind of think we better get a hold of Riley and Sam and ask them if they know about it. I mean, if I still can. But that’s a whole other saga. And there’s more, but we’ll tell you about it later.” /We so don’t need to get into the possible Angel angle right now, or my plan to overthrow the whole system you’ve dedicated your life to to fight this./ “The thing you need to know about right now is, Ethan must have piggybacked on Amy’s magickal signal, because he showed up near the end of my dream and gave me clues so that when I found out where they were broadcasting her witch-signal from, I could tell what was going on.”

She was going too fast for Giles. “Ethan Rayne walked into your dreams to help you escape Amy Madison’s entanglements at the behest of the United States Army?”

It really did sound insane. “I know. It’s a lot. But to be fair, he was being held captive by them. Probably because he knew us, to get info or something. I mean, obviously they’ve had him since Riley took custody of him after your day as a Fyarl.” 

He jerked, looking poleaxed at her recitation. 

“But since he could do the whole sorcerer thing,” she drove on grimly, “he was able to give us some clues through the dreams. Give me some warning, so that by the time I got free, I had something to go on.” And she was talking in the past tense too much, and he needed to know. “Giles,” she told the bewildered-looking man softly, “they shot him, for helping us. He’s dead.”

She wasn’t sure what she expected from him at this last. She for sure didn’t expect such a huge reaction. Giles actually staggered back, and, reaching behind him blindly, fell back into his chair. “Oh, I… Ah. Yes, I suppose…”

/Oh, wow./ “I’m sorry.”

He was nodding sort of repetitively, not really looking at her. His eyes stared blindly somewhere over her left shoulder, at a spot on the far wall. She doubted he was really seeing that, either. “Yes. Quite. Thank you. I mean, nothing to be sorry about, really. He was a thoroughgoing villain, you know. And I daresay I scarcely knew him anymore, after all these…”

She might not be all that close to Giles anymore, but she knew this mood. He was taking serious refuge in his Britishness right now. Anytime he started using words like ‘quite’ and ‘thoroughgoing’ and ‘daresay’, he was hiding some serious emotion. And he had that… stilted thing going on in his face right now, but the lines in it…

They had deepened like woah. “He did the right thing, in the end. Everything that he could, from where he was. And it couldn’t have been easy. They had a magick-dampening spell on the cellblock where he was. Most of the installation, actually. Willow couldn’t even portal out from there, so how he managed to use Amy’s signal was…” She watched him, pained on his behalf as his face flickered through any number of emotions. “It must’ve taken huge effort. Maybe even a long time, which might have been why he didn’t… catch me till the end. Who knows how long he might’ve been trying, or…”

Giles seemed to be recovering himself. “Yes, well…” He pulled himself up on the arms of the chair. Straightened, his eyes coming back into focus behind the lenses of his glasses. “Captivity does, one supposes, make strange bedfellows.” 

/Wow. Hello pessimism./ Of course, if you’d had your heart broken over and over again by someone, maybe… “You mean politics?” she quipped lightly.

Prematurely-aged hazel eyes jerked to meet hers. “Spike’s been quoting things at you, I take it?”

/Oh, wow. I guess we’re back on an even keel again./ “Yes, and he has a lot of books around.” The flicker of surprise on her former Watcher’s face only broadened as she went on, quiet and driven. “I've had time to read.” /And I see you trying to change the subject. Get it away from Ethan Rayne./

Giles was looking away from her now, glasses off and getting a good, fierce polish, and, you know what? She was just done. Because she remembered now, what he had said last summer, in living color. Couldn’t get the words out of her head. _“You must think I’m blind, but I assure you I’m not. I understand quite well. The sharp good looks, the ridiculous charisma, the bad-boy image. The decadence, the ability to draw one in with the seduction of the dark side, the_ allure _of it all; even the bloody duster. And then all the sudden you can't get out; and it's an_ addiction _, Buffy. Believe me, I know…”_ And Ethan Rayne, in her dream, lamenting that Giles was giving her a ration of shit for going after ‘exactly his kind of poison’, and how Giles would much rather she didn’t go after ‘the demon he knew’, and… “Seriously, Giles… what’s your trauma with Spike?”

Giles shook his head in one quick jerk and shoved the glasses back on. “I’ve none. You say you’re happy, Buffy. That’s good enough for me.” His face tightened, voice going brisk. “Thank you for coming to tell me about Ethan. I suppose now we must discuss…” 

“Ethan said it was because he reminds you of him.”

Giles froze. “Oh?” And his voice went thin, strange. “What an… interesting observation.”

It was way too late for him to cover. That moment of brief-but-piercing agony when he’d heard about the man’s death, the weird body language between them all those times, the hints of _history_... /Oh. Oh crap, Giles. Ethan _Rayne?/_ “Yeah. He also said that you and him had never been friends. That you would never _be_ friends.”

Giles sighed and removed his glasses again, which, seriously, could there _be_ more of a tell? 

And then he set them on the table, which, just, wow. /You were _so_ involved with him, weren’t you?/

“Buffy, Ethan Rayne is a liar. He and I were very _good…_ very _close_ friends for a very long time before he betrayed… everything that we…” He halted, but she had already heard the slight tremor in his voice. 

/ _‘You’re_ not _friends. You’ll never_ be _friends. You’ll fight, and you’ll shag, and you’ll hate each other till it makes you_ quiver _… but you’ll never be_ friends _._ ’/ 

/Oh, man…/ Not just involved. Giles had been deeply in love with Ethan Rayne. And, she thought, definitely vice-versa, because obsession, much, the way Ethan had kept coming back, and coming back… Though, maybe Giles hadn’t wanted to be? They had obviously had an affair, either way; a very mutual one. And what had broken them up had been Giles stepping away from what had been a shared passion… and Ethan’s unwillingness to give it up. The dark side. The danger. The violence and the wild. And that was why when she, at a similar age, had started courting the same with Spike… 

/Oh _man_ …/ 

Talk about a long, twisty root to untangle. And they would get to it, though obviously not tonight. But maybe tonight she could at least kill two birds if she could just get him to see…

Spike would have to forgive her, right now, for inviting him home overnight. “Giles, I think maybe you need to come back with me.” 

Her Watcher’s head lifted, and he blinked at her, looking oddly defenseless without his glasses. “Come… What are you…”

Buffy kicked herself into motion. Came around the desk. Picked up his glasses and held out her hand to him. “C’mon. It’s time to say goodbye.”

He stared up at her, at her outstretched hand, nonplussed and clearly uncertain. “What? Are you saying that you…”

“We brought him back. He’s at our home. Willow made the portal big enough for two, but she’s not going to be able to hold it open forever. She’s exhausted. So c’mon.” She favored him with a quiet, welcoming… and knowing smile. “You can stay the night.”

He just watched her for a long moment, dozens of expressions ranging over his face, a conflict of emotions filling his eyes. And then, to her surprise, he cracked. A little answering smile touched his lips; that one that had always made him so handsome, and he nodded, looking down. “I should have expected you to grow up so incredibly well, Buffy, that you wouldn’t hold such a thing against me, even when I…”

She shook her head. “We’ll get into that later. Right now you have an old flame to say goodbye to, right?”

“Oh, God, Buffy…”

So much to get into later. But for now… “Just come on, Giles. He’s earned the goodbye. And I think… you probably need it.”

The breath escaped him in a long, pained exhale. “Yes, I suppose… I do at that.”

“Do you need anything for overnight? You can send one of the girls for it.” He might have, like, pills or something at this point, for all she knew. He was getting older. And god knew people wanted their own toothbrushes and stuff when they stayed over somewhere.

“I truly cannot afford to stay…”

/‘Cause you have so much to do tonight, with the researching whatever./ He was obviously terrified to see his ex’s body. Scared to make it real. “Willow can’t afford to send you back,” Buffy interrupted starkly. “You have no idea what she’s been through today.” She caught his eye frankly. “And no offense, but I think you’re probably going to need to get wasted tonight.”

That brought him up short. “Buffy,” he told her, and drew himself up tall, “I have no intention whatsoever of drinking myself into a stupor over Ethan Rayne…”

“Well, I have every intention of sticking a bottle of Spike’s best bourbon in your hand until you pass out, so deal with it. Now come on. What do you need for an overnight?”

He seemed to be having trouble keeping up with her. Maybe it was the adult-to-adult part of things. “Ah, I suppose…” He shook his head. “My quarters are on the other side of the door, there, actually.” He nodded to an inside door here in the study. “I won’t be a moment.” And, turning, he walked toward the panel in a bemused sort of way.

/About time you did what you were told for a change./

She waited, tapping her fingers on her forearm. In moments he was back, holding a small travel bag just the size to contain a few toiletries. “Right, then.”

“Alright. C’mon.”

He held back as she started for the open portal beyond the exit. “Buffy…”

Wow. She didn’t think she had ever heard Giles sound so hesitant. It made her turn back, catch his arm. “It’ll be okay, Giles. Willow, Xan, me… We’ll all be there. We’ve got you.”

He closed his eyes after a moment. Nodded. 

They stepped through.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson)  
  
I cannot WAIT for the next chapter. It's very 'small' in that nothing all that plotty happens in it, it's all very personal, but it's definitely one of my favorite in the entire story thus far. (Me? Sucker for Ripper/Rayne, and for bringing the family back together, recapitulating Buffy and Giles). Very ship-in-a-bottle, full of nostalgic feels. Let me leave that there till next week in hopes it tantalizes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to catch this up a little.   
> So, here it is. One of my absolute favorite chapters in this (of the ones I've finished anyway), as well as sort of a jumping-off place for other "family" healing stuff. Mostly I love it because it's just really very human. 
> 
> It also has a sort of soundtrack, which snuck up on me unawares, and will be credited in the post-chapter notes, but IMO based on some things we saw with Giles in "Band Candy" and here and there otherwise which tell us his music tastes, I think there's a high probability as to what music he enjoyed, and would have enjoyed, in a certain period and with a past relationship.
> 
> What else? Oh. Yeah. I invented a cemetery for Almerimar, where Spike and Buffy are living, for the purposes of this story (first, for this scene, and later for others)... because it's BtVS. I mean, c'mon. Though mostly I try to keep things real in my stories...there HAS to be a graveyard. In reality the nearest one is in El Ejido, about fifteen miles to the north, but I am strenuously ignoring that information for the purposes of this series, because that's just too long of a walk for the mood I wish to invoke in most scenes, lol.

It was tough to watch the slow way Giles approached the wrapped bundle there, on the porch. The way he kind of hung back for a moment, Xan and Wil’s greeting hands sliding off of him as he stared. “Is there, ah… It looks as if you’ve… preserved…”

“A stasis spell,” Willow agreed quietly. “Xander did it. Until we can…”

“Ah. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Xander, you… Well, that’s quite…” His hands were shaking.

/Oh man./

“Hey, G-man, it’s no big, alright? Take your time.” Xander looked mystified by Giles’ reaction, but he was willing to go along with things now he knew Buffy was right about their old mentor’s clear upset over the death of his ex-frenemy.

As if drawn by a magnet, Giles left them to draw closer to the still form; step by painful step. When he finally reached the portico he crouched very slowly, and one hand moved out in clear hesitation to pull the edge of the old sheet away. His face remained very blank for a long moment as he looked over the ivory-tinged features of Ethan Rayne’s dead visage and then…

The glasses came off. And he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. His knuckle rolled to press, very subtly to one eye. And his shoulders shook. “Could I, perhaps… have a moment?” 

The request was made very quietly, a little hoarse… and it was enough. “C’mon, you guys,” Buffy told everyone softly, and dragged Xan and Wil from the living room. Backed up against Spike so that he let out a surprised oath and uncrossed his cynical arms to move with her toward the kitchen. 

Once they were inside the red-tiled, terra cotta cubicle, Buffy sighed and turned to her guy. “Just keep your comments to yourself, alright? He’s having a tough time with this.”

Spike frowned fitfully and re-crossed his arms in stubborn irritation. “Don’t see why you couldn’t bring the bloody thing to him if he’s so broken up about the bloke kicking it. Didn’t have to bring him here…”

She shook her head sadly. “He’s going to need us tonight. Burials, and the finality of everything…” /Admitting it to yourself that they’re never coming back…/

“I can probably manage a grave. If not, Xan can probably lend me some mojo, if there’s somewhere around here discreet enough…” Willow was watching her with a steady sort of growing suspicion. 

Xander was clearly just confused. “This is Ethan Rayne we’re talking about, right? Insane costume guy? Turned him into a Fyarl guy? One of the Eyghon guys guy? Generally making messes and causing trouble guy?”

Buffy flickered her eyes to Spike’s. “Once upon a time they were really close. But not friends. Never friends.” Saw the recognition flickering into place in an azure gaze. “Losing someone to something you tried to quit, realizing they were part of an addiction… It’s going to leave a mark, once they’re in your blood.”

Spike got it. His eyes softened, and he dropped his arms once more, this time in surrender. “Oh, bloody hell.” And his gaze darted out of the room, in the direction of their porch. “Well, Rupert. Who sodding knew?”

Willow’s voice broke in, quiet and uncertain. “Someone you tried to quit… Oh.” Realization flooded her voice. _“Oh.”_

Buffy turned to catch Wil’s eye. “He never really seemed all that thrown by you and Tara.”

Wil looked down at the floor at that, pain flooding her face. “No, he was totally unfazed, wasn’t he?” she answered softly.

“What are you guys all talking about?” Xander demanded, sounding increasingly upset at being left out of the loop. “Who was addicted to what, and what was in someone’s blood, and what are you talking about, they were never friends? They were _obviously_ friends, back in the day, right? I’m not getting…”

Wil caught Xander’s arm to forestall any further outburst, tugged him down, whispered in his ear. Buffy watched as Xan’s expression went from frustrated to confused to shocked and alarmed to just simply thunderstruck. “You’re _kidding!”_ he burst out finally, and his eyes flickered out toward the living room. He seemed incapable of imagining such a thing. _“Giles?”_

“Never heard of takin’ a walk on the wild side, Harris?” Spike asked with an interested cock of his head. “Swingin’ both ways? Any of that ringin’ a bell?”

_“No!_ I mean, yeah, but, it’s… _Giles!”_ And then he closed his eyes, clearly overwhelmed. Then some thought seemed to strike him square in the chest, and he almost staggered. “Oh God, who do you think… I mean, if…” He trailed off, spluttering without actually saying anything, so incapable of speech that it took Buffy a second to figure out what he was so hung up on. But once she had…

/Oh, wow; _really_ , Xander?/

Wil was staring at him in some disappointment as well. “Seriously, Xander? Like it matters.”

He gaped for a second at the both of them, taking in their disgusted expressions, then subsided, waving one hand as if he didn’t care either. “No, I mean, of course not. It’s just… I’m having a hard time picturing… _Giles_ …”

Spike snorted scathingly. “Maybe best not to try to run the film in your mind, if it gives you such a bloody embolism, innit?”

Buffy kind of couldn’t with Xander and his homophobia right now, so she turned away from him to catch her guy by the forearm. “I kind of promised him a lot of alcohol tonight, Spike. You think you can find something, you know, really high proof that’ll get him on his knees quick? I think he’s gonna need it.”

Her request drew his derision away from Xander and back to sober on her gaze. He nodded. “Got you, Slayer. I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.” He deserved the warm response, since to open their home to a person who had offered him nothing but hostility of late was asking a hell of a lot.

A slight smile touched his lips at the quality of her voice. “No need, luv. Just the thought I’ve the excuse to drink the Watcher under the table sounds right entertainin’. Well worth the sacrifice of a bottle.” He frowned thoughtfully in Giles’ general direction. “Or two. Sod knows how to put it back, I’ll give him that.” Heading out, he strode purposefully through the doorway toward the cabinet in the living room where he kept the liquor. And paused pointedly with his head cocked toward the porch as he opened the door, every line of his body broadcasting that it was time for them to emerge. 

“We need to go check on him.”

Wil blinked at her. “Huh? How do you…”

Buffy jerked a chin at Spike. “He just told me.”

Willow and Xander stared in tandem from her to Spike and back again for a moment, obviously nonplussed, but they must have decided to take it on faith that she knew what she was talking about, for they followed her wordlessly as she exited the kitchen to go to Giles.

When they rounded the corner to the living room and could see him again he was still crouched beside the body, head down, but whatever he had gone through seemed to have passed somewhat. He was still, at least, and not speaking. Just looking down, eyes filled with some strange, undefined emotion that seemed two parts old, distant pain and one part new, quiet loss. 

Buffy approached slowly, Wil and Xander in her wake. As they did so Giles must have become slowly aware of their presence, for he covered the face before him and then, with a brief press of the hand to the area just above Ethan’s unmoving heart, pushed himself wearily to his feet. “Ah, I very much appreciate having had the opportunity to…” He faltered, voice catching slightly, and looked down. 

And the glasses came off yet again. “What do you, ah, intend to do with the… The body?”

It was the way he said it that did her in. She knew that phrase, the weight of that word. Knew how hard it was to say it. To internalize all that it meant, and Buffy couldn’t help it. She was reaching out before she could think, to touch his arm. “There’s a cemetery nearby,” she answered softly. “We thought, once it was close enough to sundown we could, you know. Find a spot near the edge. Like they did for me at Restfield. If Wil doesn’t have enough power left tonight to do a quick… excavation, then maybe she can talk Xander through it. Or we’ll…”

“No problem,” Willow chipped in softly, and shot a glance back at Xander. “You can lend me some juice, right?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean… Yeah.”

“I know it wouldn’t be much,” Wil went on softly, “considering there wouldn’t be, you know, services…”

Giles jerked his head once, swiftly, in negation. “No, it’s… It’s probably more than he ever expected, considering. He, ah, eschewed all that anyway, long ago. Laughed in the face of tradition, and…” Something in his face broke, and it was clear that he was fighting to hold back tears. 

Interestingly, it was Xander who jumped in. Xander who apparently had the understanding and the touch to feel him in that moment. “Look, I don’t even know where Anya’s… Where she ended up; and with that off-again-on-again, and the sometimes being a demon, and the unforgiveable things and the last-minute heroics and the just, you know, weird reformation, and…” He shrugged. “All I’m saying is, I don’t think people like that care, as long as they have someone there who cared about _them;_ even a little, you know? Even if they liked to pretend when they were… here… that it was no big deal and they were fine on their own. Because deep inside… they really did, or they wouldn’t have bothered, you know?”

Giles’ head lifted, and his gaze caught on Xander’s one eye with a strange light; as if he were surprised and… maybe a little humbled. “I think… perhaps you’re right, Xander.” He nodded. “I suppose we should… go on ahead with that plan, then.” His voice sounded a little rough, but steadier.

Spike approached then, a full tumbler already held out and an unmarked bottle in hand. “Might do you good, Watcher,” he intoned solemnly. “Being as we’ve got a bit before sundown.”

“Oh.” Giles eyed the outstretched hand for a moment, a little shudder visible in his shoulders. He seemed torn as his eyes rose to flicker toward and away from Spike’s reserved gaze. “Yes, quite. Though, one might think I ought abstain from drinking till we conclude the… burial, as I’m not entirely sure I can manage all that in the face of…”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Just drink up, Rupert. This whole bloody bottle’s got your name on it. No one here’s going to judge you for starting a bit early.”

Giles blinked at that, and then a faint smile touched his lips. “I hardly think I’ll need that much liquor this evening…”

“Too bleedin’ bad. Slayer says she promised you a bottle, and a bottle you’ll get, if I have to pour it down your sodding throat.” The startled look spread to something alarmed. Spike ignored him. “Now. Best you eat something beforehand, or we’ll be carrying you back from the yard, yeah? Drink that tot, man, and we’ll find you something to soak it up.”

Giles seemed thoroughly nonplussed at this point. “I feel as if I’m being gently bullied by you lot.” But he did take the drink Spike was shoving at him, if only to hold it loosely in his grasp as if he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

“Giles,” Buffy told him firmly, “Remember that time you pushed me out of the nest with the best of intentions?”

He winced and looked away from her, down into the glass.

“Well. This is suffocating you under our wings with the best of intentions, alright? Maybe it’s the wrong thing to do and it’ll make you super uncomfortable, but I guess we’ll find out tomorrow, right?”

That earned her a faint maybe quarter of a bleak chuckle. “Well, I suppose a drink won’t kill me, whereas…”

She forestalled his outdated spasm of guilt to nod at the amber liquid. “So, then…”

“Yes. I suppose so. Well.” He lifted the glass. “Bottoms up.”

She felt like they all kind of relaxed a little around him as he swallowed the alcohol down. He didn’t right away, though. With a little flinch and a slight gasp that wasn’t quite a cough, he eyed Spike directly for the first time since he’d arrived, clear, eye-watering admiration written on his face. “Good God, man, what the bloody hell _was_ that? It certainly wasn’t any sort of bourbon I’ve ever…”

“Kentucky rotgut. Picked it up when Buffy and I were traveling across the States last year. Not as smooth as the sort you’re used to, but soddin’ effective, yeah?”

“I daresay! Too much of this and I’ll be on the floor!”

Spike took back the glass. “That’s the general idea, Watcher.” He held up the bottle. “Have another?”

Giles looked dubious, if already slightly more relaxed. “Oh, I’d better not. At least, not till… after. Or I’ll not be walking anywhere.”

“Oh, I have faith in you, Rupert. You’re a better drinker than you let on.”

Giles sighed a little and glanced back very briefly toward the porch. “Tonight, I rather doubt it.”

Buffy kind of thought so too. “Here,” she told him, and jogged quickly into the kitchen. Came back in a few minutes with some fluffy shepherd-bread and goat cheese they’d had set aside for that seven-year-old Rioja Gran Reserva Spike had found on his last foray into the _mercado_. /We can get more. This is for a good cause./ “Anyone need a snack?” And she slid the tray onto the table.

***

They stood under the newly-appearing stars and watched as Willow, left hand clasped in Xander’s right, lowered her free hand. Along with the motion, the vast load of dirt cascaded down to settle with unnerving quiet to the leaf-mold beside the new grave, there under the spindly juniper scrub which hid their activities from any remaining prying eyes. Then, with another lift of her hand, the body of Ethan Rayne rose, and lowered slowly into the ground. 

There was a moment of silence, in which Giles simply stared down, unmoving. And then, as if something inside him had kicked him into motion, he walked a little around the foot of the oblong pit and, leaning over, caught up a handful of dirt. Stepped a little closer to the grave and, bending a little, held out said dirt. Opened his hand… and let the light, airy, reddish-dun soil of southern Spain trickle down through his fingers onto the occupant below. His expression was bleak, and yet strangely peaceful as he did it. And then he stepped back. 

It was an odd thing to do, but Buffy supposed that if you didn’t have flowers to throw in…

Willow’s voice broke the silence, sounding startled. “Was he… Jewish?”

/Huh? Was that a Jewish thing?/

Giles’ head jerked just slightly. “He wouldn’t claim it, of course. He’d turned his back on anything you could call a belief, save that which he practiced. Never spoke to his mother again after she disowned him. But… It seemed apropos now, since…” He lifted his shoulders and dropped them; just the slightest, helpless twitch. “Well, it isn’t as if I have anything else to give.”

Willow nodded. “It’s not something that goes away.” And there was something strange in her voice as she said it; some sort of… recognition. 

Then, stepping forward, she picked up her own handful of dirt. “May I?”

“Oh. Ah, of course, if you…”

Reaching out, Willow added her handful to the dust scattered over the remains below. “Thank you,” she whispered softly, “for helping to save my life.”

/So, apparently this is a thing./ Buffy felt mystified, but, oddly, pulled. “Is it something that only… I mean, he kind of saved my life too. Can I also…” She glanced briefly at Giles, longer at Willow. “Or is it only a, if you’re Jewish or super-close thing?”

Wil shook her head. “No, um, go ahead. I think… he’d like that. Don’t you think, Giles?”

Something like quiet agony touched the edges of the smile which lit Giles’ lips. “Oh, I think he would find that beautifully ironic, and yet touching in a way he would never remotely admit. Alive, he would run from such a thing with his hair on fire, and make crass comments all the while. Now he can’t, so fire away, Buffy.” 

God, the pain in his voice. 

Clearing her throat, Buffy stepped forward to pick up her own handful of dry, talcum-like soil. Held it out, let it sift down over all that was left of Ethan Rayne. “Thank you,” she told him softly. “For trying to warn me; and trying to help. For doing the right thing, in the end… even if you thought it might get you out of there. I’m glad, either way.” Her eyes jerked to Giles, and she finished it inside her head. /We’ll take care of him for you, just like always./

She stepped back, felt the bulwark of Spike’s silent presence as the moment ended. 

Wil waited for a second, then turned to Giles. “Okay?”

The question seemed to jolt Giles out of some deep inner contemplation. “Oh. Yes, I…” He closed his eyes. Nodded. “Go on, then. I’m… ready.”

He didn’t watch, though, as Willow clasped Xander’s hand with her left and then brought her right, and the dirt, back up and settled it down again over the grave. Buffy did hear him say something, she thought, as the soil settled back into place. A quiet exhalation, but a poignant one; “Goodbye. You right old queen.” It was said with such pained fondness and such a weight of history that Buffy could tell he needed maybe another minute. Jerking her head in a signal to Wil and Xan, she caught Spike’s hand and stepped away for a sec, under the little copse of fig trees off to one side there screening the nearest path.

They could hear him then; not his words. Just a cadence of murmurs, rising and falling; imprecations and demands, regrets, and then silence. The shapes of words without content, but it was enough to know that he was breaking over this. That, more importantly, he was letting himself. That he had seen them as equals; adults around whom he could allow himself to let go in this way. 

Giles was no longer holding himself as ‘the adult in the room’, who had to keep himself together ‘in front of the children’. He was letting himself be human. 

God knew Buffy was well aware how desperately important it was to be human sometimes, after all that pressure. And she knew how much more imperative it was to have people around to help pick a person back up again after the falling apart.

Of course, he was still trying to look put-together when he emerged some time later, despite the dirt-marks on the knees of his tan trousers, the dust on his hands, and the marks of grief on his face. None of them commented as they walked back toward the house, toward the beach; just found the paths past the edges of Almerimar in silence until they reached home. At which point Giles asked in a very subdued voice to be directed to the bathroom and disappeared in there for a while, ostensibly to wash his hands and stuff, but probably just as much to get himself together. 

When he emerged he was met with another glass. One he could not refuse, since they had a plan, and were all holding their own doses. No one tried anything so gauche as a toast; they just lifted them quietly, because god knew they all knew what it was like at this point to perform a sendoff for someone who had wandered back and forth over the line between the dark and the light—or even mostly the dark—for most of their time on Earth, but who was still deeply loved… and who would be desperately missed. 

The silence must have helped as much as the drink when it came to regaining equanimity, for Giles managed a nod afterward and straightened up. “Well, then. Shall we, ah…” He frowned a little then, and shot Buffy a quick, confused glance. “Did you want to manage a sort of potluck? Because I’m afraid I haven’t brought anything.”

Buffy hid a smile behind her hand, covered it up by rubbing her nose. Between emotion and the high-proof alcohol Spike was supplying (which, by the way, she was pretty sure was not really from Kentucky, but more likely from some moonshine-y demon still he’d found around here, and the other thing was just a convenient lie so Giles would get trashed sooner), Giles had already kind of stopped making sense. “No, uh… We actually have kind of a regular cook-guy here for our group, but we told them to hold off coming over tonight.”

“I beg your pardon. You’ve a _cook?”_

Xander, too, seemed stunned. “Yeah, you wanna run that by us again, Buff?”

Spike interjected at that, speaking up for the first time since some murmur or another on the road back. “Bloke’s a Loose-Skinned fellow; lot like Clem. Picked him up in Hell-A. Right likes the job, as it’s the one he had with us there in Beverly Hills. It’s his contribution, yeah? The rest of the lot contribute appetites and battle skills, he keeps everyone fed.”

“Huh. Talk about living high on the hog.”

Willow, though, was watching Buffy with interest. “It’s like you have your own little cell going down here.”

Buffy shrugged slightly. Put on the spot, she was feeling slightly uncertain about recounting the ins and outs of her new daily life around the remains of the Scoobies. Would they feel supplanted? “Dial in case of emergency, right?”

“Yeah, but I never thought…” Willow subsided, sounding confused.

Yeah, they were feeling replaced. Buffy sighed inwardly and turned her eyes on Giles. “Anyway, we usually all eat together every night, but if you want to see just family tonight, Giles, we can have the rest of the group find dinner somewhere else.” /Family, Wil. Yes, I do know there’s a difference, alright? They are our team, and a damn good one, and we’ve been through things, but no. It’s not the same, and it never will be, okay?/

“Oh, ah…” Giles looked a little at a loss. “Who exactly…”

“Well, there’s Tiny, obviously,” Buffy began, still a little uncomfortable. “Maria. She’s basically half spider-demon and half-human, I think.” She frowned as the thought just then struck her, belatedly, after how long? A year’s interaction? “And don't ask me how that happened, because I don't want to know.”

“I think I know how it could,” Xander put in with a little wince.

Buffy frowned at him, wondering just what the heck he was getting at. And then she remembered his little night with the praying-mantis-teacher-of-doom, and… just… /Oh God./

“She ran afoul of a sorcerer of some sort, pet.”

“Oh.” Buffy was much relieved to hear it. “That’s a way better story than…” /Well, anyway./ “Moving on. Um, Jamal is her boyfriend. He’s a werewolf. So’s Nina, a friend of ours who lives with them…”

“Oh,” Willow broke in softly.

/Yeah./ “And the sisters. Gris and Rinne. They’re…”

“Their da was a Gavohk demon,” Spike interrupted briskly. “Had himself a right harem, I understand. They’re meant to have a loads of other half-siblings about, somewhere…”

“Oh, is that why…” /Huh. The more you know./ “They have different mothers?”

Spike’s eyes were surprised on hers. “Yeah, pet. Thought you knew.”

/Man, I really should, like, do the girl thing with the chicks and find out everyone’s stories, huh? Jeez./ “I dunno, I just never thought about it. Gris acts like _she’s_ Rinne’s mother half the time… kind of like me and Dawn I guess.” 

“Yeah, well, she raised the chit, didn’t she, since dear old da ate most of their mums…”

Buffy threw up a hand to forestall any further exploration of Gavohk mating customs. “You know what? I don’t wanna know. Let’s leave it at I’m glad they have each other.” Turning back to the wincing group, she scanned her mind for further pertinents. “Oh, and there’s Betta George. He’s… Well, he only joins us if he feels like coming out of the sea for the night because it’s poker night or there’s a meeting, since he’s still so glad to be back where there’s decent water and no freaked-out minds…”

Xander held up one finger, calling a pause. “Excuse me. The sea? We’re not talkin’, like, the swim-team or…”

Buffy bit back a little laugh. /Trauma, thy name is Sunnydale High./ “No, not even a little. Yeah, he’s a fish. A big, telepathic demon-fish.” And she waited.

The single eye closed. “Oh, man. And I thought _we_ were a messed-up bunch.”

“Bit of a motley lot,” Spike agreed easily, “but serviceable. Seen a lot with us, in Hell-A and since.” His eyes drifted shrewdly to touch on Willow. “No witch, obviously, so there’s a bit of a hole there in recruiting, but other than that, a solid emergency team.”

Buffy, though, kept her eyes on Giles. “They can grab their food and eat in the poker room, or just go out and eat somewhere else, like I said. But Tiny can also come in and make you anything you want tonight, if you’re okay with sharing space. No one’s going to invade your bubble. Tonight was poker night, but I’m sure they’d be willing to postpone it if you…” 

Giles was looking a little bewildered. “No, I, ah… rather think I’d like to meet your, ah, new compatriots, actually. And a fine meal sounds rather attractive. By all means, tell them to come along.”

She watched him for a second to see if he was just being polite, or if he was serious. And, okay, he didn’t seem to be holding back at all. Actually, he seemed super distracted, and maybe…

Maybe aside from wanting to see what sort of demons she was associating with nowadays, he was looking for a way to _not_ think. At least, about the man he’d lost, anyway. Which, when she thought about it, having to interact with a bunch of new demon-y sorts would probably seriously foot the bill for him in the keep-Giles-from-thinking department, and… /Oh, I can so see where you’re going with this, Giles./ But if it helped, who was she to judge? /God knows I know all about the using people to do the not-thinky when it comes to not dealing with the big loss./ 

The group started to filter in shortly after that, at Spike’s signal. Tiny entered first, to reclaim his kitchen with clear relief. “Hello, all,” he exclaimed as he slipped around from the back veranda. “Don’t mind me; I’ll just head in…” He lifted a long-clawed hand, arm-skin flapping, and flashed a pointy-toothed smile. “Nice to meet y’all.”

“He’s not really very tiny,” Xander muttered as the tall and exceptionally wide demon disappeared into the kitchen.

“Hence the nickname,” Buffy answered blandly.

Maria and Jamal came in next and were introduced. Jamal essayed a few truculent comments about the composition of the extant Scoobies, their overall humanness and bland color palette, which was fair, from his perspective. Maria, on the other hand, was a comparative social butterfly, if still somewhat suspicious. She shook everyone’s hands, at least, looking Wil up and down to size her up in that ‘I seen what you can do, girl’ way, and Xander in a more, ‘like the man-candy’ fashion. Xander, of course, eyed her with equal interest. 

Willow, it must be said, paid far more attention to Jamal, because werewolf. And to Nina, who followed them in a moment later.

Giles just looked mildly shell-shocked at everything as the trio slipped away to go set up around the poker table. “We’ll eat in here,” Nina informed them quietly. “Stay out of the way of the reunion...”

Before Giles could protest for form’s sake, Tiny’s head popped back out of the door, long ears twitching uncertainly. “Since we’re all from Cali… We are, right?” He scanned the nods of assent. “Well, I mean, not _from-_ from, since, Spike, and…” His red eyes twitched to Giles. “I’m guessin’ from your accent you’re one of his brothers-in-arms…”

Giles choked a little on his rotgut, and Spike snorted darkly into his glass. 

“But we all came here from there, right? So I was thinking, in the name of homesickness, how about some _chilis rellenos_ and flan? I could whip it right up; got the peppers right here. Found ‘em at the market the other day…”

“Actually, that sounds… remarkably refreshing,” Giles murmured, voice still a little hoarse from the remains of his choking fit. 

Xander’s response was far more enthusiastic. _“God_ , yes. You’re a hero and I worship at your clawed feet.”

_“Well,_ now,” Tiny answered, and grinned broadly, every single pointed tooth now showing. “Maybe I’ll also manage a few enchiladas…” Loose-Skins couldn’t blush, but he was clearly pleased as he ducked back into the kitchen.

“Wow, can he really just whip up…”

“Mmm, who’s the _pirate?”_

Xander’s head jerked comically around at Rinne’s sultry, admiring remark. “Huh?”

Buffy grinned a little, internally, and felt Spike doing the same. Xander was now staring open-mouthed at the sisters as they sidled into the room. While Maria had been wearing her standard babydoll tee and cutoffs, these two were in halter-tops that left very little to the imagination when it came to their voluminous bosoms, and some very tight pants. And Xander was noticing. 

“Who are _they?”_ Willow asked in a low whisper, jerking Buffy’s eyes around. Wil was staring at the girls, looking awed, which… hadn’t she kind of seen them before, when Buffy had been coming out of the dream? 

“Meet Griselda and Corinna,” Buffy introduced them with a wide gesture. “The most dangerous half-demon sisters you’ll ever come across.”

“You know it, _chica_ ,” Gris chipped in, and sauntered past with a little wave. “We eating in Dawn’s room?”

“Dawn’s room?” Giles asked, apparently coming awake for the first time in several minutes.

“We made it into kind of a game room after she went back to Berkeley.”

“Ah.”

Xander watched the girls prowl past, single eye alight. “Can I eat with them?”

“Down boy,” Willow told him, sounding amused. Spike’s low chuckle echoed through the room.

***

Buffy sat half on Spike’s lap on the armchair and sleepily observed the evening’s fallout. She had watched as Giles went through the performance of a lifetime through dinner; as he pretended to be jovial and grateful for the reunion and interested in everyone’s lives and essentially, still, ‘the adult in the room’. And then, as their other friends remained out of view and distractions failed to come and the alcohol continued to do so, his façade began to crumble.

By the time they were done with the main course, he had fallen silent, and his hands were trembling. 

By the time they had gotten to the flan, he was a quiet wreck. 

And by the time the plates were pushed away and they’d all had a silent round of drinks—everyone else’s second, his and Spike’s, oh, fifth?—he was _just_ wasted. “You know what I think? I think we need some music in here!” He stood up from the table, tilted a little—Spike, moving with vampire speed, shot out an arm and steadied him before he could totter sideways—and gave them all a little nod, Spike included. “Appreciate it. Anyway. Music, isn’t it? Much the thing. What sort of…” He made to stagger toward the record player.

“I’ll get it, Watcher. How about you just hold on to the back of the couch there, yeah? Get your feet under you.”

“Oh, I’m doing excellently, you… ridiculous vampire! I don’t give a damn what sort of a constitution you have; I’ll have you know I could drink you under the bloody table!” And he waved his empty glass around like it was a flag or something.

Spike’s lips twitched. “I’m sure. We’ll have another round just as soon as I look over the albums, yeah?” He shot Buffy a meaningful look as he struck out for the entertainment center; one that said to keep her ‘bloody Watcher’ away from his ‘sodding records’ in his condition before he broke something.

Buffy led her inebriated father-figure away from the table and over toward the couch, exchanging glances with Xander and Willow as she passed them. They both looked concerned, but not deeply so. Not yet. “You wanna sit down, Giles?”

Mid-travail Giles drew himself up and, with great dignity, lifted his arm away from hers. “I am confident in my ability to walk to the sofa, Buffy, thank you.” And then, with measured tread and what was clearly enormous focus, he made steady—if wobbly—progress across the small room under his own steam. For which, honestly, Buffy congratulated him. She had had some of that demon-made stuff of Spike’s… just once, and never again, thank you very much, because it was no damn joke. Giles had had, like, three before they’d stepped down to regular booze.

Still… he hadn’t really gotten down to it. He had a ways to go before he really bottomed out and let himself feel. But he probably shouldn’t drink much more. Not with the way he was already wobbling. Maybe if she got him talking… “You know,” she told him as she stationed herself at his elbow, “I kind of get it. I mean, obviously…” She jerked her chin at Spike. “I would. But I guess the difference is…”

His eyes closed, and pain immediately etched itself across every line of his face. “Mine didn’t try to change. Buffy, please, don’t.”

/Oh, man, so not where I was going with this./ She reached out a hand. “He did at the end.” /Let him believe it, even if…/

A little jerk of his head; negation. “He wanted you to save him. Take him out of there with you. He wanted to be freed. That’s all. Incarceration wouldn’t change Ethan. Not him.”

Buffy bit her lip. “You don’t know that for sure. What four years locked up did to him, or for him…”

“No, Buffy.” The agony written all over Giles’ entire being never shifted. “If I wasn’t enough for him to…” Then his mouth closed sharply, and he shut down.

/Oh, wow. Oh God./ Was that something Giles had been carrying since… Since he was in his _twenties?_ Feeling like he wasn’t good enough for someone to want him enough to…

/To do what Spike did for you. Oh, man./ “Giles,” she half-whispered, and reached out to catch his arm. “That’s not on you, okay? You couldn’t just keep throwing yourself into a black hole. I tried to do that with Angel, and it would’ve sucked me dry. You had to save yourself, and maybe he just wasn’t ready to leave. That’s not _on_ you.”

Giles remained still for a long moment, then his eyes opened finally. He flinched a little, then sighed. “I never wanted you to know about this. To think less of me.”

/Wow, seriously?/ “Oh,” she told him quietly, “I don’t think less of you for loving a bad boy, or even for trying to throw yourself at the whole ‘saving somebody with love’ thing, because where could I stand on either of those?” He blinked at her for a moment, owlish and drunk and startled. She decided in that moment to give a shot at jollying him back to something like humor. “And I don’t think less of you for loving a guy, because that’s just kind of hot.”

Faded hazel eyes stared at her for a second, and then he shuddered. “Buffy, please don’t even begin to…”

She interrupted him with a teasing smirk, which then sobered as swiftly. “I do think less of you for your double standard.”

He closed his eyes again. “That is…” He belched softly. “Considerably awful of me, isn’t it. And I’m ever so sorry, but… I’ve been so terribly afraid for you, you know.” And then he waved his glass around the room, at the low lamplight on the decorated walls. “And now, look at you. Look at this place.” His gaze came back around to focus on her, bleary and a little unsteady, but wondering. “Look at _you_.”

“You said that twice.” She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be amused or irritated. “And, thanks, I think?”

“Mmm.” 

He looked like he was fading fast. And he still hadn’t really gotten to the meat of it. Close, but… “What I can’t figure out is, you didn’t take this thing with Spike seriously at all at first. And then all the sudden you were freaking out…”

Deeply lined, haunted eyes opened on hers once more, shrewd and startlingly aware for a toasted guy. “Because I believed you were better than I, Buffy. I trusted you far more than I ever trusted myself.” 

/Oh. Well, pressure, much? And then, what? You decided that I let you down by being too much like you?/

He waved the empty glass around him again. “And, ov…viously,” he managed, stumbling a little over the word, “I wasn’t there for much of it, so I missed…” He shook his head, looking confused once more. “And then I really _saw_ , and I got thoroughly terrified for you, Buffy. You were my _daughter_ and then I _abandoned_ you because I was in no way adequate to help with all the things you were facing; nothing like good enough, surely I was going to fail you…”

/Oh. Oh, wow. You thought _you_ weren’t good enough?/ What a wonder, to hear that, after so many years.

“…And then I came back… and there you were…” He waved the glass around again, sort of over his head. “Just following in my footsteps, and I thought…” He bent over, lowering the glass to the back of the couch. “But he changed for you, didn’t he?” It came out in a bare whisper.

“Yes,” Buffy murmured in answer. “It wasn’t an easy road, but he did.” And, oh. “But it wasn’t because I was better than you or anything. It was because of who _he_ needed to be.”

That had Giles straightening up, a fierce light in his eyes. “I resent him, you know. No way a damned vampire should be better at being human than my… Than…”

/Oh. Well… crap./ “Maybe he’s just had longer to do it all and get bored?”

That brought Giles up short, sent a contemplative look over his sagging, lined features. “Well, that’s just… Bloody hell, I never even thought of…”

Then he straightened abruptly. “No, no, no!” And he was staggering around the side of the couch, waving his empty tumbler around like a madman. “No, you… You _heathen!”_

/Buh?/

Spike was clearly on her same startled page. “What the bloody hell is your problem, then?” he demanded, glaring, but Giles was already shoving him aside to root through the records stacked beside the player. 

“No, that’s not at all the thing. Let me see what you’ve…” _Sway_. “…Got here…”

Spike eyed him warily, looking amazed at having been summarily ejected from his own music collection. “Since when are the Clash ever ‘not at all the sodding thing’, you numpty?”

Giles was clearly in a whole other place. He had dragged out some mostly-white album and was opening it up, a feverish glint in his eye. “Oh bloody hell yes,” he muttered reverently. “Just brilliant.” Fumbling with the record he’d pulled out, he nearly dropped it. Saved it at the last moment and slithered it onto the player in a way that made Spike almost grab it away from him, then tugged the arm over it while tottering a little, tumbler wavering over the whole system so that Spike winced and flinched. Then one Giles-finger was upheld as some weird, humming guitar-noises resounded from the speakers, like a distorted, descending choir or something, backed by resounding, rolling drums.

“Oh, hell,” Spike announced, sounding aggrieved. “We’ve gone right down the sodding rabbit-hole now.”

Some really old music started going, a man whose voice Buffy really didn’t recognize singing very earnestly about a white room and a station and something about golden pavement. It sounded like he was on drugs. 

“Yes. Bloody _this_.” Giles had his eyes closed, head tilted to one side over the record player as if that he’d forgotten where the speakers were, clearly in some sort of ecstasy. He was kind of draped all over the thing. 

Buffy exchanged wondering glances with Xander and Willow. Then all three of them started in alarm when Giles pushed back from his hard lean over the player to sing to the ceiling in a long, low howl, “…‘Silver horses… ran down moonbeams… in your dark eyes!’” Buffy had always really loved Giles’ voice, but right now he was kind of warbling a little. “‘Dawn light smiles… on you leaving… my contentment!’”

/Well… wow. He’s just really wasted, isn’t he?/ 

Spike must have caught her concerned glance, because he hadn’t left the man’s side yet. At this he tilted his head and smirked knowingly. “Bit of a special song, this one, Rupert?”

Giles threw Spike a secretive sort of smile… and then, shockingly, threw an arm over his shoulder. “’Wait… in this plaaaace’…”

/Oh my God, he is So. Drunk./

Spike was endeavoring to turn the limp Giles away from the record player and toward the poker room. “Come on then, Watcher. Come play some cards, yeah?”

Giles pulled abruptly away to bellow a few more lyrics. “‘You said no strings… could secure you’…” And then his face crumpled. 

“Bloody hell.” Spike hitched the dangling guy up a little on his shoulder. “Come on then. Ante’s just a bit of nothing.” And he gamely guided the howling, inebriated Watcher back toward the poker room with a gentleness completely at odds with his usual demeanor around the man, extricating the glass from Giles’ nerveless fingers as he did so. He handed the tumbler to Buffy as they passed, mouthed the word ‘water!’ before they disappeared through the doorway.

“…‘Lie… wiiiith yooou… where the shaaadoooows run… from themselves!’”

Buffy hurriedly jogged into the kitchen to rinse the glass and fill it with water, brought it back to set it by Giles’ elbow. Spike had gotten him somewhat installed in one of the seats next to his normal station—in a chair with arms, she noticed gratefully—between himself and Tiny, and was nodding at Rinne to deal them in while Giles sat there, head dangling, mumbling to himself about forgotten old wounds and someone who had yellow tigers in his dark eyes.

/Ethan really was your ‘vampire’, wasn’t he Giles? God, no wonder you were so freaked about Spike. No wonder… all of it./

Xander, also sitting in on the game, looked bemused both by Giles’ general wastedness, but also by his good fortune, since he had taken the opportunity to get himself seated between the two buxom, green-skinned demon-women. He had kind of a dopey smile on his face as he played, doing his best not to brush any arms or boobs while he put his cards on the table, but he was clearly alright with the composition of present company. “You uh, sure you don’t want to play, Wil?”

Gris’ head jerked up at that, looking interested. "No magicks, if you do, if you please!" Giles mumbled, and his head sagged once more to leave him blinking blearily at the cards in his hands.  
  
"Oh, jeez," Wil answered, sounding affronted. "Like I'd do that."  
  
Rinne chipped in at this, as if to alleviate Wil's irritation. “You should join in, witch-girl.”  
  
Willow tore her eyes away from her concerned-slash-offended study of Giles, now mazily attempting to sort his hand of cards. “Oh. Uh, no thanks. The last time I played poker was for pretzels with Xander like a hundred years ago.”

Xander grinned broadly. “It was for M&Ms, Wil, and you kicked my ass.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll rest on my laurels and watch.”

“Al- _right_ …” he sing-songed. He sounded like he thought she was making a mistake. 

Gris and Rinne looked sad about it too. “Could’ve used a witch in the game.”

“What, she’s not gonna cheat the numbers.” Gris shrugged with a quick, weighted glance in Wil’s direction. “Like she said; she’s not that type, _mija_.”

“No, but better than George. He’d just see what we’re all thinking. And, plus, you know; _el paisaje…”*_

“Yeah, well… That’s still there either way.” 

“Tell me about it.”

Wil leaned over to whisper in Buffy’s ear. “What’s _el paisaje?”*_

“I don’t know _that_ much Spanish.”

They watched the game together for a while. Though, it was less of a game from Giles’ perspective than a hazy exercise in drinking the water Spike shoved at him and trying to keep track of what round they were on. 

He was so completely schnockered. And he was still humming his trippy old songs to himself along with whatever was playing out there on the record. And, honestly? The thought that Buffy would have ever seen her old Watcher drunk off his ass, playing poker with a bunch of demons, was not something she could ever have imagined before this, but it was something she would definitely have paid admission for. 

Strangely, she felt like Wil was watching her as much as she was watching the game. But she couldn’t really parse that right now. She was too busy focusing on all the byplay going on at the table. Xander, trying to flirt clumsily with Rinne while Jamal made pithy, backhanded comments about everyone’s stand-up style; his method of distraction while Maria moved in behind him and quietly cleaned everyone’s clocks. Giles not really playing so much as just not falling out of his chair, while Spike divided his attention between his usual job of maintaining what he called ‘even odds’ on the game, since this wasn’t a moneymaker (he generally saved the cheating for outside the group) and being more or less helpful and solicitous of the man who’d raised her in this world, which was kind of heartwarming. Did anyone but her realize how amazing he was, that he could put aside everything and just… be this wonderful, in his own rough way, when it was called for? 

The lamplight shone off his forearm as he laid a hand against Giles shoulder and nudged him gently upright for the third time, then pointedly shoved the glass of water back into his hand. 

“Could do with a bit more scotch,” Giles muttered, looking into the glass doubtfully. He was still kind of canted off to one side. 

“Drink it down, Watcher. Best scotch in the house, right there.”

“Oh, well done. Cheers.” And he tossed back the water, then frowned. “You know, I do like it neat. But ta anyway, old man.”

“I’ll make it stronger next time.”

“Brilliant.” He had another swig. “‘Thinkin' that I might have drove you too far’…” he murmured quietly, only half-singing, now. “…‘And I'm thinkin' 'bout the love that you laid on my table’…” And falling slowly, he laid his head on the current surface. “‘…Told you not to wander 'round in the daaark’…”

Xander lowered his cards to his chest to watch, looking concerned. 

Spike rose and nodded to the poker players. “Give us a mo’, yeah?” And without further ado he had Giles up over his shoulder by one arm and was more or less dragging him toward the couch.

“I got you,” Xander called, and scrambled out from between the girls to join Spike from the inebriated man’s other side. He grabbed Giles’ other arm and slung it over his shoulder before Buffy could even move, and they were staggering six-legged toward the door, Giles basically dead weight between them. 

He hadn’t even made it through the whole album he’d put on.

“Wow,” Willow murmured as they got up to follow. “He is just _so_ drunk.”

“I think that was kind of the intent,” Buffy agreed, watching with concern as the boys more or less poured the old man onto their couch like human soup.

As Xander straightened his legs, Giles could be heard still warbling lyrics to himself under his breath. “…‘Yes, I told you…mmm, mmm, you better pick yourself up from the ground before they bring the curtain down’…”

“Drink down that water, Watcher,” Spike told him kindly. “Bog’s right down the hall there, if you’ll try to remember it when you need to stagger down there and have a nice vomit in an hour and a bit.”

“I’ll have you know… I can hold my liquor like a champion.”

“Yeah, you’ve done right by the bottle tonight. I’ll tell the world.”

“Good on you, mate.” Giles lifted his tumbler of water and sloshed what was left of it onto his chest. He seemed unaware of the accident, it being far more important to him at the moment to fill the sudden silence at the end of the current record with another crooned ballad. “…‘And if I could choose… a place to die… it would be in your arms’…” he warbled, singing from memory.

/Oh man/ Buffy thought for about the ninth time. 

“I got it,” Xander muttered again, and took the glass from the limp hand to go refill it. 

“Maudlin bastard,” Spike muttered, coming back around the couch to rejoin them, and shook his head. “That Rayne git really buggered him up.”

Buffy nodded sadly. “I kind of get the feeling he was the love of his life.”

Next to her, Willow sighed sadly. “That really worries me. He was so young. And obviously he moved on and had other, you know, relationships, but it doesn’t seem like he’s been with other guys, and no one really long-term, and, just… How bad did it mess him up? And then I think of me, and how young I was when…” She bit her lip. 

Giles could still be heard half-singing quietly to himself over there, sunken in on the couch. “…‘It's all wrong… but it's alright, the way that you treat me baby! Mmm!’…”

“I think…” Buffy let her eyes catch on Spike’s. “It depends on whether it’s something you can either fix, or move on from. If you can’t do either… it’s hard to get over it.”

Spike’s eyes on hers acknowledged the undercurrent to her words. Then she was tearing them away, nodding to Wil and a returning Xander. “There’s the bed in Dawn’s old room. The poker one. And there’s this other chair, here, I guess. I mean, we aren’t set up with a lot of extra beds. The girls and Tiny might also let one of you crash, or Maria and Jamal and Nina might, though I’m not sure they have anywhere but a couch either…”

“…‘Don’t say… goodbye’…”

“I can crash here on the chair,” Xander volunteered, handing the now-mostly-mumbling Giles his water. “Keep an eye on our guy. Wil can have the bed, whenever everyone finally clears out.”

“…‘Give me one more day, please’…” 

Buffy turned to head for the stash of spare linens Dawn had left behind. “I’ll get it set up for you…”

Spike forestalled her abortive movement with a quick grab to the arm. “How about you let me get everyone settled, pet?”

Buffy found herself just sort of blinking owlishly at him. “Huh? Why should you have to…”

He sighed as if she was extremely trying to his soul. “Because you’re fair knackered, Love. It's been a long bloody day.” His hand rose, stroked her cheek. “Go on to bed. I’ll see to it.”

“…‘In your heart I want to stay’…”

“But the game’s not even over yet. It’ll probably be…”

Her stubborn damn vampire just shrugged. “It’ll be over soon. They always end quicker when there’re no kittens.”

The comment woke her enough to shoot him a _look_.

“What? It’s true!”

“I’ll get ready for bed, but I’m staying up at least till we get everyone settled…”

Giles turned over audibly on the couch, his voice becoming muffled and mournful as he buried his face in the upholstery. He had somehow, unmistakably wandered back to the first song of the night. “…‘I’ll sleep… in this plaaace… with the looonely crowd. Lie in the dark… where the shaaadows run… from themseeelves’…” 

“I’m never gonna get any sleep, am I?” Xander asked mournfully.

***

Buffy bundled Giles back through the portal to St. Petersburg in the morning sans breakfast, since he was too hungover to get a thing down beyond a nice liquid diet of coffee and water, or to eat anything besides Tylenol, and maybe, just maybe, a little bread. Which, well… even that took serious coaxing. 

He’d probably never take a drink from Spike again. But if his body was a disaster, he looked a lot better from an emotional standpoint at least.

Last night Spike had had a quick shower and joined her in bed finally to drape an arm over her waist, having eventually shuffled their crew out of the house. They’d gotten Wil settled in, checked in on Xander and a stertorously snoring, if restless, Giles. She’d headed in to perform her usual ablutions, while Spike did his standard last-minute patrol outside, because he was a worrywart. It was his equivalent of a guard-dog pissing on the corners of the property, prowling around putting his vamp-scent on everything to warn any passing baddies not to bother them. 

As she’d snuggled back against him he’d buried his nose in her hair the way he tended to do to while she slept, so that he could lose himself in her scent until she fell out. He always stayed with her till she was asleep and he knew for sure she wasn’t dreaming anything bad before he left to go do vampire things; and he always checked in off and on… just the same as she did for him in the mornings after he made her breakfast and cashed out to avoid the brightest rays of sunlight. 

The first time she’d ever joined him in turn to snuggle him to sleep had occasioned no small startled comment from her prickly vamp, but she had been able to tell how pleased he’d been all the same. After all, holding each other was still kind of a thing. Practically a statement, for them. He’d finally gotten used to the concept that she’d invite it from him… but that she would return the favor… All snarky commentary had vanished promptly into wonder that first time she’d taken a turn as big spoon and snuggled him into submission. _“Just shut up and go to sleep, okay Spike? Let_ me _take care of_ you _for once.”_

It had become the pattern that worked, so that they could spend both their sleeps and their evenings together. _“He was a right mess in there,”_ Spike had murmured into her hair last night. _“Poor old sot.”_

/Oh, right. Vampire hearing./ Buffy had reached down to catch her guy’s hand, drawn it up between her own. _“Sorry to spring him on you like that. I just… couldn’t leave him like that, after I told him and I realized for sure…”_

_“No. You were right. He needed the closure. Should’ve heard some of the things the bloke said about their time. Might even’ve been as gone on him as I was on you.”_

Buffy had turned her head slightly, a faint, teasing smile on her lips _. “Past tense, huh? Bloom’s off the rose now you’ve lived with me for a while, I guess…”_

The tease had earned her a growl. _“Don’t be daft, you mad bint. I meant the unrequited bit, and you know it.”_

Remembering all the little barbs, the body language, the concealed but obvious _longing_ in Ethan Rayne’s voice, Buffy had shaken her head a little. Turned back to her pillow, regret flooding her for whatever had happened that had so broken Giles. _“Oh, it was definitely requited. It just couldn’t… keep on going.”_

_“Yeah. Gathered that. Never thought I’d hear Rupert so soft. He ‘bout lost the plot when you died, sure, but that was all wrapped up in responsibility and failure and the rest as well. With this Ethan bloke…”_

_“It was his self-worth,”_ Buffy had whispered quietly, then rolled over in Spike’s arms. _“I don’t know what I would’ve done, really, if you ever stopped loving me. I know… you should’ve. But the fact that you somehow didn’t; that you decided to keep on following me even after…”_

_“I already told you to stop being daft.”_ And tugging her close, he’d kissed her slow and gentle, to silence her.

If she hadn’t already known how lucky she was, she did now.

Giles might have been unlucky in love, but at least he’d lived. Which was kind of impressive when you looked at last night. As they exited the portal with him more or less looped over Buffy’s shoulder, they caught sight of Courtney fortunately wandering by. “Oh, hey. Which way to Giles’ room from here?”

The young Slayer, Giles’ second here in Russia, stared nonplussed at her leader’s condition. “Buffy? What, um, happened? Is Giles okay?”

Giles, of course, winced as if she was yelling. “I’m ruddy excellent. Could you please…”

“Shut up, Giles. You’re still on leave. Courtney, can you get Giles a tall glass of water?” She eyed her Watcher assessingly. “Maybe more like a mug. One with a lid, if you can find one…”

“Buffy, I’m not a bloody invalid.”

She ignored the protests. “And where’s his room?”

Courtney pointed vaguely to the right. She was still gaping at them, so of course Giles took up the chant, still wincing at the noise in his skull. “I can certainly direct you to my quarters, for God’s sake…”

“Courtney. Water. Chop-chop.”

“Oh. Right.” Courtney started to turn in automatic response to the orders, then slowed and bent a little to gaze into her Watcher’s bleary, bloodshot eyes. “Did you get hurt, or get cursed, or…”

Giles straightened, leaning harder on Buffy to do so, and glared balefully at the girl. “I,” he told her flatly, “got very thoroughly pissed last night, Courtney, for the first time since I cannot rightfully recall; and in celebration I intend to remain indisposed for the remainder of the day.” He then turned the glare on Buffy. “Perhaps I shall keep down food, if I find myself disposed to continue living.”

Buffy patted his shoulder approvingly. “That’s the spirit.”

“I didn’t commit to anything, Buffy. Your enthusiasm is indecent.”

Grinning ‘indecently’, Buffy hauled him in the direction she had been sent. After a minute or two of shuffling around four-legged, half-dragging Giles’ dead weight, things started to look familiar, and she lugged him through the study door and from thence into the bedroom. Which was, by the way, she noticed in passing, very Giles-y. What with the spartan simplicity and the work-worn books and the kind of Deco lamp over there, it basically looked the same as his place back in Sunnydale, except for not being a loft. It didn’t even have windows. /Same as me, Giles, huh? All with the safety and the no outside approaches?/ 

Sunnydale had taught them all a few things about access while sleeping.

She didn’t spend a lot of time exploring or anything; just clicked on the lamp, hauled him over, and plunked him down on the bed. Picked up his legs… (“Buffy for God’s sake, I can put myself to bed!”) Heard the knock at the door and abandoned him briefly to head back and meet Courtney there. The girl had had the intelligence to bring not just a really good-sized tourist-mug (a ‘Welcome to St. Petersburg!’ looking deal with a big picture of some multi-colored, onion-domed palace on it) but also a big hunk of bread on a little plate. She thanked the younger Slayer and sent her on her way, returned to her post. “Good to know your people are fairly smart.”

“Courtney’s clever enough,” Giles answered softly, and sighed. He was squinting a little too much, really, for such a dim room. No curtains to close for him. “Thank you.”

“For what?” She sat down on the edge of the bed and patted him lightly on the shoulder. “I did everything I promised, right? Got you there, got you drunk—though, obviously Spike helped a lot with that, and don’t ask what you were actually drinking—got you home again…” 

“I shall never ask what it was I ingested last night, I assure you. I knew, however, the instant I put it in my mouth that it was in no way from Kentucky.”

Buffy’s lips twitched again, involuntarily. /Can’t fool a trained whiskey-drinker./ “That shows a lot of trust.”

His eyes closed, apparently inadvertently. “I honestly didn’t care anymore in that moment.”

“Yeah.” /After… Yeah./

As if realizing he sounded kind of rude toward a guy who had been pretty unexpectedly genial toward him all night, Giles sighed again, this time in something that sounded like defeat. “Buffy…” He stopped for a moment, and when he took it up his tones were soft, hesitant. “Your home is lovely.”

/Oh./ It was a peace offering. And she would take it. “Thank you, Giles.”

“Southern Spain is beautiful this time of year.” 

She tensed a little. Forced herself to relax. Giles wouldn’t send anyone after them to invade their privacy. He understood all too well, after all, why she had removed herself. Still, it took her a moment to regain control of her voice. “It is.” /Breathe, Buffy./ “What, uh, gave it away?”

A faint smile touched his lips, brought different creases to his closed eyes. “No other coast quite looks like that, my dear.”

“Oh.”

“Except California. Which I’m sure rather figured into your decision-making…”

She bit her lip. “A little.”

“It goes without saying that your secret is very safe indeed, with me.”

She let out the breath she had been holding, and, /Why were you so worried, dammit? Whatever is between us, this is _Giles!_ /

A short, potent silence fell between them before he spoke again, this time with slightly less hesitancy. Maybe even some wonder. “You seem… quite at peace there.”

“Yes.” It was a firm response, leaving no room for question or confusion. And, since she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to hear any more of his thoughts, she reached out for the mug, nudged it in his general direction. 

He took it but didn’t drink, eyes on hers with that slow, firm intelligence he’d always betrayed. “Your… associates are very colorful, but they seem willing and helpful individuals.”

That could mean… so many things. An opener to a concerned diatribe. A simple commentary. Who knew. She fought not to close her voice as she answered. “Yeah, they’re pretty great. We’ve been through a lot together.”

To her surprise he didn’t follow that with any questions. Not even a comment. He just… watched her. Then, after what seemed like a really long time… “I’m happy for you, Buffy. That you’re finding your way. I’m even… rather obscurely proud of you. It has to be a strange road. No maps; and yet as always, you forge ahead.”

The familiar, almost-forgotten prickle of pleasure flooded her; as it always had when he gave her his approval, and dammit, was she always going to be hoping for it from him? But at the same time, maybe she had _wanted_ him to see. Maybe that had been part of her subconscious motivation for bringing him home with her, aside from the Ethan thing. /I probably wanted you to see me and Spike at home, just being _us_. So you could see that your fears are un-grounded and… we’re good. We’re so _good_./ It was, for one thing, a necessary first step, if he was going to accept her plan. Today wasn’t exactly the right time to get into that, with his head the way it was. She’d give him a day or so for that one, first, and bask in his unexpected approval before she inevitably dashed it with his shocked disappointment over her insistence on partnering with the demon world to fight the US Military.

Her silence must have made some kind of impression on Giles, because to Buffy’s surprise he laid a hand over hers. “Would you… thank Spike, for me? For being… a gracious host?”

/Oh. Oh, wow./ Acknowledgment and… So many things, and… Her throat was tight when she responded. “Yes, I’ll… pass that on.”

He nodded a little, though the movement clearly brought him pain, and flinched again. His hand went to his temple, and he recommenced his squinting. “It was… very good to be among you all again, if briefly. Everyone’s changed so much; and yet, not at all. And… it felt nice… to be a part of things once more.”

/Oh God. I know those feels./ “Giles…” She leaned over, reached for his free hand. And realized by the way his mouth was wide open, the creases at his eyes relaxing, that he had fallen asleep again.

/Rest well, Giles. I hope… you get some peace too./ 

Standing, she headed back toward the hallway where they’d left the open portal. The girls here were well-trained enough to know better than to touch it, but still, Wil shouldn’t have to hold it open forever. And anyway, it just felt wrong being so far away from Spike. 

Especially after the attenuated feeling of the dreamscape, she never wanted to feel so _far_ from him again. 

His discomfort with the distance was clear on the other end of the ‘line’ as well.

Once back home, she stepped through and nodded at the waiting ex-Scoobies. Moved over to thread her fingers into Spike’s grasp. “He’s fine. I think… he’s even better.” And touched her guy’s waiting gaze with her own. “I know I am.”

The answering squeeze of his hand shared her gratitude.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_el paisaje:_ the scenery

The album Giles put on: 'The Very Best of Cream' (put out in 1995, the vinyl has multiple sides, and thus I had him start it far from song 1, for my own reasons). Songs quoted: "White Room" and "Badge", by Cream, and after that, sans-album, "Bell-Bottom Blues" by Derek and the Dominoes (aka the other band Eric Clapton was in after Cream broke up, while he was trying to be all stealth about it, though he fooled exactly no one (yes, I am obsessed with R&R history, shut up)).   
  
There's a reason I slipped a few lines from these songs into this chapter. I fully believe in the "This Is Your Brain On Music" interpretation of memory encoding, for one, but for another, "Band Candy" showed us how important Cream was to Giles (which, side-note, I fully ascribe to the belief that Ethan secretly hoped that Giles would regress to wanting him rather than wanting to kick seven grades out of his arse in that episode, but that's just an aside).   
  
For a third... Well. Suffice it to say that my brain created such massive amounts of back-story for these two whilst writing this chapter that I was forced to write a Ripper/Rayne prequel in tandem with this bit, which is well-begun now, being as it was born a perfect homunculus of a fic out of nowhere during this story. It was built in a sort of organic structure with "The Best of Cream" (and a bit of Derek and the Dominoes and a few other bands, the Who, etc) for a soundtrack like a sort of trellis around which the fic grew like winding ivy, climbing for the sun and then choking and tearing itself down in the end in a disaster you can see building but you're helpless to save it from itself... GAH.  
  
Anyway, the tale is slowly staggering to a finish by painful accretion in between my work on Spuffy stuff. Anyone who wants to be updated when that's done imploding and ready to be posted, feel free to drop me a line, or just keep an eye out. The name of that story is **"The Temptations of Ulysses"** , and is slowly seeing beta-work, while my muse kicks and screams its way through the hurty chapters.   
  
In the meantime, thanks as always for reading this one!!! Next week we have some much-belated screen-time between Buffy and Willow, thank goodness!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, just wanted to thank y'all for such a lovely reception to the Giles-in-mourning chapter. I really appreciate it. I do intend to appreciate your appreciation... It's just that, rereading it to post it threw me headfirst back into writing the prequel, and I've knocked out about 40k on that in the last week. That story's gone from making me smile like a loon to leave me hovering on the verges of a despair so deep I can't think straight, because WHY? Just WHY did it have to happen, though? (Essentially these two lads in their twenties have me on the floor and I. Just. Can't.) I mean, it's like writing a train-wreck you can see coming, but you're having so much fun having tea and snuggles on the sun-lit lawn that you can't move for the life of you and it's just... NOOOOOOO...
> 
> Anyway, that story might actually be the death of me. And writing stuff in the present that recapitulates them might be the only thing keeping me functioning. God, who knew you could become so wrapped up in what are officially 'side-characters'? Ugh.
> 
> But, well. Moving on. Back to our regularly-scheduled Spuffy...
> 
> (Oh, also, CW in here for discussion that briefly touches on things religious, though in a sort of... anthropological way? I was attempting to figure out, in the demon world, why the crucifixes thing might actually do what it does with or without belief, and followed a train of thought to a conclusion, from pre-Christian stuff through to Catholicism, mixed with in-series logic. It was in no way meant to diss anyone's beliefs.)

“So, I guess we should be getting back. Get started on… everything.”

Xander was kind of standing around, a glass of juice in his hand, looking out through the protective curtains at the gentle waves crashing in to sweep their beach and clearly a little loathe to actually follow through. It was, after all, a huge step into uncharted territory. 

/Here be dragons/ Buffy thought sarcastically. /Kind of literally. But then, based on what we learned in Hell-A, dragons can be kind of sweet if you pet them and feed them, so…/

Willow, hovering just a little behind him in the doorway, shrugged a little. “Satsu texted. She says everything’s fine since those zombies stopped coming over the walls.” And a little, teasing smirk touched her lips. “Though I know you’re dying to get back to Renee…”

Xander’s reaction was immediate and without heat. “Shut up, Wil.”

Buffy, still leaning back against Spike and well out of range of the stray beam of sunlight from the slider, did her best to hide a smile at their sibling-esque verbal sparring. “How is that going, anyway, Xander?” she chimed in sweetly.

Xander, predictably, whirled half around to look all harried. “It’s not… We’re not…”

“Tell that,” Willow interrupted blandly, “to the way he reacted when he thought she was going to die when we did that recovery mission in Tokyo. I thought he was going to have a conniption. He totally took over the spell I was doing; just grabbed a hold of it, literally _siphoned_ energy off of me to redirect me over to put a shield around her…”

Something in Xander snapped. “I’m just tired of seeing people I care about die in front of me, okay Wil? That has nothing to do with…”

“How is she in bed, Xander?”

Xander turned a very interesting shade of purple and whirled back to study the ocean with extreme attention.

Buffy bore down on Spike’s hand really, really hard and bit her lip to keep from busting out laughing. 

She was going to leave it at that, and she kind of thought so was Wil… but of course Spike was in no way that kind. “Still got all your bits intact, Harris? Bedding a Slayer takes a certain amount of… strength.” He narrowed his eyes and looked Xander up and down critically. “You don’t present the picture of a bloke who’s missing a prick, though, so I s’pose the bint’s takin’ it easy on you. ‘Less of course you aren’t sortin’ her out right enough to be in any danger.”

Xander’s neck went from pink to crimson, and he made a sort of gargling noise. Willow, though, had turned back to stare at Spike with a startled sort of expression. The kind that came from, well, recognition and experience, and all kinds of things Buffy really didn’t want to think about. “I never thought of… Oh.” And she swung back to blink at her best friend with a speculative gaze. _“Oh.”_

Xander’s shoulders hunched. 

Buffy sighed. “Leave him alone, you guys. I’m sure they’ve figured things out. Riley eventually did, more or less…”

Spike made a very evocative sound of derision. Buffy plowed on without acknowledging him in the slightest. “…Or maybe found a spell or something. Whatever. Xander at least has practice. He did get down with Faith, after all; and if that’s your first time, you’re gonna kid of, what? Imprint on rough as a good thing?”

Spike straightened at that, sounding if anything slightly impressed. “Oh, yeah? Had a Slayer for your first, did you? And _that_ one? _Well_ , now, Harris; didn’t know you had it in you. Least you come by your type honestly, innit?”

“Shut _up,_ Spike.”

Buffy dug an elbow into her vampire’s ribs. “You get that a lot from people. Maybe you have a character flaw?”

“Yeah, well. Worth it.” Grinning, he delved into his pocket for his Zippo. “Gonna go have a smoke, pet. Let Harris here settle, else he’ll combust, then I’ll maybe whip up something for you.”

Buffy ignored the starts of surprise from her ex-besties to keep her eyes solidly on his. “What about you? You hungry?” She actually doubted he would be for several days, after the ‘meal’ he’d had yesterday, but that was only one level. She knew very well that he wanted to… reconnect, had been holding back on the desperate need to do so out of deference to her general underfed weakness, and then to the whole guest-age thing, and having to defer to a nice fight and stuff. Not to mention he had been pretty damned hungry before said fight, and wouldn’t have wanted to take too much. But, now he was well-fed. Now it would be all about other things. And, well... 

A nice round of… reconnection bespoke an entirely other sort of hunger. Which was a not necessarily unwanted prospect even for Buffy’s human side. And for her not-so-human side... 

She had seen her mate splayed against a wall, powerless, while an unprincipled witch toyed with him, felt his stifled terror and helpless rage, his vulnerable fears, and… Yeah. To put it mildly, since then and with her energy coming back a little, the thought of reclaiming him in turn made her feel plenty pre-gamed. As in, suddenly quivering and ready to jump him right now, pre-gamed. 

Her blood might still be a little thin, but she’d also had a meal under her belt, and apparently ‘claim-sharing demon-girl Buffy’ was all rarin’ to go in that department. 

Spike knew—and felt—exactly where she was going with the question. His scarred eyebrow lifted with a kind of assessing interest. “Not as yet.” And then his lips quirked into a tongue-roll, because he was an instigator. “But if you’re offering…” Which he knew she was… eventually. His nostrils were already flaring, the punk.

/Alright, alright. You know that wasn’t what I was talking about, you dope./ She felt the easy smile touch her lips at the twinkle in his eye. He of course had had to go there in front of everybody. He was testing a little, to see how she’d respond in front of an audience; and especially this one. “Save it for later,” she told him softly, and slipped a hand to his cheek. “No need to put on a show.” 

That earned her another lifted brow, this one pointed since, A, she’d technically brought it up, if only to be solicitous of his needs as part of the group, and B… they both knew her kink for exhibitionism. “Stop it. There’s a time and a place.” Besides, said audience was already getting an earful. /Mission accomplished./ She could feel Willow’s stunned eyes on her back, Xander’s still-pained vibe from where he remained resolutely facing the Mediterranean, and, yeah. /Flaunt away, William. I’m not going anywhere, okay?/

The grin devolved into another tongue-tapping smirk… then faded, and his nose dropped down, nuzzled at her scar. Chills ran all along her body, which was, in this moment, not necessarily his goal, but it was a definite byproduct. Especially when his voice lowered to something slightly more suited to privacy. “Was more’n a bit worried about you, Love, when I couldn’t feel you.”

His tone, the emotion behind it, sobered her as well, and she felt her fingers curl around his bicep of their own accord; an automatic bid to steady herself. “I know. Me too.” She felt the shiver drag through her; his need and her own indistinguishable. “We’ll fix it. Soon.”

“Yeah.” Setting her away from him firmly, he turned. Headed for the hall beyond Dawn’s room and the back veranda. “Give us a shout, pet, when it’s needful, yeah?” 

“We will.” Easier to keep their hands off each other in mixed company if they maintained minimum safe distance, with that instinct to very physically reconnect humming between them like an almost visible hot-wire of need. He’d stay a few feet away from her from here on out until their guests departed, and he’d prefer it if she did the same.

Probably best. Still, nothing said the eyes were off-limits. Thus, she watched him till he vanished, eyes drawn like iron filings to the lodestone of her new existence.

When the draw had slipped her immediate sphere, she turned back to find Wil watching her with undisguised fascination. “What?” she asked; a quiet challenge. /Yes, I’m ready to have this out, if you want./ She was well-aware that Xander must have already vented his fears on the subject to this willing ear long since, or Wil would have acted the hell of a lot more shocked by her scars when she’d first arrived. That that quick brush of the eyes over them upon her awakening had occasioned nothing but a searching glance told her as much. However, it was one thing to know and another to hear the evidence, and… /Go ahead and tell me you’re worried. That you’re scared for me. That you think I’m too deep under his ‘spell’ or something. Just go ahead and get it over with, Wil, because I’m so _tired_ of this conversation…/

“He _cooks?”_

Buffy was so taken by surprise that she stumbled over her prepared speech. “I know, Wil, but the thing… what? Oh.” /Oh!/ And now she realized that Xander was staring at her as well, an expression of clear disbelief written all over his face. What with the sudden disengagement of tension, their stunned amazement had her laughing out loud. “Oh, right, yeah, that probably seems… Really weird.” Shaking her head a little, she moved to the nearest chair and just let herself snicker it out for a sec, the tension bleeding away. 

They watched her, probably thinking she was nuts or something. After a minute or so, though, she managed to get her breathing under control, waved her hand a little. “I know, it’s bizarre, right? He’s, like, eighteen-hundreds-guy, and a vampire, so why…” She could breathe. Really. “But he’s totally into food, and one day he saw me trying to cook breakfast for Dawn and he basically outlawed me ever coming in the kitchen again except for snacks, so…” She was mostly back to normal, now. “I mean it’s not like he’s a chef or anything—like, not like Tiny—but he can make a mean omelet, and he’s great with a few other things…” She tried her hand at an impression of him, since he wasn’t in the room to glare her into submission. “Like he says, ‘Who bleedin’ doesn’t love bacon, pet?’ I honestly think it started with trying to figure out how to make that onion-blossom thing for himself…”

Spike’s voice echoed down the hall from outside. “It didn’t. And I told you if you ever tried to sound like me again I’d have your guts for garters, Slayer.”

Damn vampire hearing. “You’ll _try,_ ” she called cheerfully back. “Besides; who even says that anymore? ‘Guts for garters.’” This was starting to get entertaining. “I mean, if you ever wanna wear garters I’m okay with it, but fair warning; there _will_ be pictures.”

“Drink from your bloody brainstem, I will, if you don’t sodding stop it.”

“Uhuh.” Grinning, Buffy turned back to her now thoroughly nonplussed friends. “He still thinks he’s terrifying,” she told them in conspiratorial tones, totally aware that she was playing with fire at this point. Heard a telltale sound from down the hall; of a chair scraping on tiles. /Buffy, what are you _doing?_ / “The Big Bad who’s ready to kill me at any moment…”

“Oh, you don’t know how close you are to bringin’ him out.” He was leaning against the hall doorway now, watching her with clear intent in his eyes, and dammit, she hadn’t even been meaning to flirt. It was just… /Okay, screw with your bite and then just walk away, and it does things to my brain cells. They stop working, alright?/

Xander cleared his throat. “Do, uh, we need to leave you two alone?”

Wil, though, wasn’t even paying attention to what Xander had very clearly twigged as foreplay. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh that hard, Buffy,” she murmured, sounding awed. 

Spike straightened from his slouch against the doorway, baleful glare clearing to twitch away from her. “Yeah, people keep saying that,” he muttered, and his mock-thunderous expression shifted to twinkling and bright; like sun coming out from behind a cloud-cover. “Must be somethin’ in the air.” With a quick shrug, he turned for the open kitchen doorway. “Omelets, is it, then? Best live up to advertisin’, after all that.”

/Mercurial, thy name is William the Bloody./ 

To Buffy’s surprise, Xander clicked into motion and moved toward the kitchen. “Here, uh, let me give you a hand.” At Spike’s surprised look, he shrugged. “I’ll stay out of your way, but I _did_ learn to feed myself, and Anya after that, for years, without poisoning anyone. I’ll cut stuff up or something.”

“Alright, Harris, but keep your sodding hands off the spices. That’s my arena, yeah?”

“Fair enough. Though how a vampire knows how to season anything is beyond me…”

“You ever try to make pig’s blood palatable?”

The shudder was audible in Xander’s voice. “Thank God, no.”

“Well then.” 

Their voices trailed off as they disappeared into the tiled room. Buffy found herself smiling fondly as she listened, arms crossed and head down and just generally feeling a sensation of overarching gratitude for how her world was working out. Yeah, sure, there was some weird new threat in the world. /What else is new./ The US Military was apparently after the Slayers. Sure. Whatever. Badness, and they’d sort it out. Wil was planning to put a call in to Riley and Sam just as soon as she got back to Scotland, so they’d figure it out ASAP. But meanwhile… Dawn was back in school and safe after five-plus months of bonding, and for the first time since Buffy could remember, she and her sister were back on an even keel. Giles was back in her life and, amazingly, he was apparently okay with her most important relationship. Xander and Spike were actually _getting along_. Willow was here and seemed somewhat easy in her presence again for the first time since she couldn’t remember when… 

“This is really working for you, isn’t it?”

She lifted her head to stare at Wil, startled. “What? The living with demons, and…”

“The living with Spike.”

Buffy tensed, because, so not ready to have this old argument again. Wil, though, raised a hand to forestall anything defensive. “I’m not trying to fight. I think I’m just… realizing something.”

The call for peace derailed Buffy’s immediate irritation. “What’s that, Wil?”

“I think…” Willow halted. Reset herself. “Okay. This might sound weird, but… I think you’re kinda like me.”

“Um, okay?” Buffy was at sea. “You gonna tell me you like vamps too?”

That earned her an instant splutter, Wil dropping her arms in protest. “No! So much with the no! I’m just saying…” She slowed, clearly choosing her words with care. “Okay. You know how I can obviously be with a guy if I’m in love with him enough?”

“Like with Oz…”

“Yeah. Exactly. And it was even good. Really good. But I don’t, you know, identify as bi because… I guess, that’s not where I really feel… right. Where I’m supposed to be. I mean, I _can_ , but it’s not…” 

Buffy nodded and moved to take a slow seat in the nearest chair. “I hear what you’re saying, I think.”

Her understanding seemed to give Wil strength. “Well, after seeing you dating different people, and how you could just never really let yourself completely… relax with… Well, human guys. Like Riley. I mean, he was really sweet, and he tried so hard, but…” Her eyes turned sharp and incisive all the sudden, the way they sometimes did, piercing Buffy. “It wasn’t just about… being physically… compatible, right?”

Buffy looked away, toward the crack in the curtains that led to the sea. “It wasn’t,” she admitted softly. “Though that was a part of it. I did have to be… gentle with him. Hold back a little.” /A lot, by the end. As in, ‘finish by myself in the bathroom’ hold back, once the meds wore off./ And she could admit to herself now how very damned much that whole thing had fucked up her head, that something as fundamental as orgasms had hurt her significant other, until she had taught herself, of all things, not to come… until Spike had entered her life like TNT to tell her that there was nothing wrong with her strength. That it was hot, it was sexy, that he wanted everything about it. That if only she could believe him, she might be able to accept that that was okay just to relax and love herself when she was with him. That it wasn’t her being perverse for wanting a vampire; and not just because he could handle what she dished out. 

That she wasn’t wrong for needing what he could give her, as well as what he could take from her. /I needed to admit that I’m not what they told me I was. And I wasn’t ready yet, then. And it damn near crippled me./

Willow was nodding pensively. “After the Scythe, Kennedy…” She looked away. “I get that, now. And why maybe things might’ve been… different with Riley after…” She cut off, but there was an understanding there that had not been before. For which Buffy was grateful, honestly, whether she approved of the relationship with Kennedy or no.

“There was more to it, though, wasn’t there?” Wil went on after a moment. 

The comment brought Buffy out of her pensive silence. “More…”

“I remember, Buffy. It may have looked like I was all wrapped up in my own thing, with Tara and the magicks and everything, but I _was_ paying attention. And…” She hesitated a little. “There was just… a part of you that you couldn’t open up to Riley, wasn’t there? Like… it was locked, and he just didn’t have the key to it or something, right?”

/Dammit, Wil, why do you have to be so perceptive? You were supposed to be all caught up in your own stuff—in losing Oz and getting with Tara and all that—to notice things like that back then!/

“And obviously you’re, you know, drawn to vamps whether you wanted it or not, which means clearly they’ve got something you, you know, _need_ …” She shrugged a little, and then lifted her head to catch Buffy’s eye; a bold maneuver since in that moment Buffy felt skewered by the knowing gaze of a friend who was no longer remotely the young, sweet, shy girl she had been, but a powerful woman in her own right. “Maybe they have the key to that hidden part of you, huh?”

For the first time in a very long time, Buffy actually _wanted_ to look away from someone. It took serious effort to keep her gaze level on Willow’s. To face the knowledge and the power there and, in doing so, admit that, yes, there was a hell of a lot to that. 

After a moment Wil nodded and dropped her eyes again, having apparently read what she came for in Buffy’s gaze. “And you seem super happy now. Like there was something about yourself you were, I dunno, in hiding about. You were all, in-confict-girl before, when you were with him the last time. But you weren’t, really, with Angel, until that got all messy, and I think until now, that was the last time I really saw you super happy. So I think maybe… you’re like me. Like, you can _be_ with human guys, but that’s not where you live, you know?”

/Well, hell./ Letting out a heavy sigh, Buffy threw it all in. “I’m vampsexual. Yeah, Wil, I know.” She’d figured that out a while back. “And you’re right. It messed me up for a long time, but I finally just had to admit it to myself and stop trying to do things that weren’t working for me, because I was just making myself miserable being in denial about it. Being in denial about who I wanted.”

Wil nodded and picked a little at the back of the couch. “I think it’s… maybe a little more than that. I think maybe… you’re also kind of… Bi-species-romantic, but you lean vamp when it comes to your romance orientation too.” Her eyes turned briefly back toward the kitchen. “I don’t think it’s just about sex, or you wouldn’t be so happy right now with everything else. Now or then.”

Buffy frowned, thrown by the unfamiliar terminology. “What do you mean, ‘romance orientation’?”

Willow waved a hand. “Never mind. Queer lore. All I mean is…” A little huff. “I… it’s like I can be attracted to a guy, but it’s mostly romantic and less sexual, and rare compared to what I feel around women. With them it’s usually the whole shebang, you know?” She shrugged again. “I think you’re like that with humans, you know? ‘Can be with, feel some feels, but it’s rare to get super-attached, and the sex is…’”

/Meh./ “Yeah.” Buffy wasn’t even all that reluctant to admit it anymore. The truth was, after all, the truth, and all the pretending and wishful thinking and ‘maybe I just haven’t found the right guy yet’ in the world wasn’t going to change it. /Because you already have, and you know it, and there’s no denying it when you’ve had him… on every surface of every place you’ve been on two continents, an island, and a boat. Heh./

“So you’re like me,” Wil finished with a little smile. “Only with vamps, where you get the whole kit-n-kaboodle whether you want it or not, so you can’t deny it.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” /And thank God we’re having this conversation now and not a couple years ago, Wil, or I’d’ve come out swinging. Which says a few things right there, huh? Call me closeted girl./

And did it ever feel good to come out of that closet. She got that now. How worth it it was, even if she hadn’t been ready during a much gentler and less pointed conversation with a much gentler and less pushy person named Tara, once upon a time.

Give Wil credit; she really was trying to be more like the Willow of old and not General Witch of more recent times as she moved to take a tentative seat in the closest chair. “I think…” Wil sighed heavily. “I’ve watched you, Buffy. You were my best friend forever, you know? And I’ve never seen you light up the way you do around vampires, one way or another. Never seen you so alive, so passionate around anybody or _anything_.” A little pause, like hesitancy. “They bring you to life because…”

“They’re why I was made. I know.” She wasn’t even sensitive about it anymore. “And yeah. It’s totally why. My demon-y side needs a mate. I’ve found him. He found me a long time ago. Our human sides have what they need too, and I’m so not ashamed anymore. I’m just… completed.” 

A strange little smile lit Wil’s face. “Complemented, really. Yin and yang. It’s very… Wiccan, actually. You’re the embodiment of an ideal of mine, when you get down to it. It’s… beautiful.” She sounded… kind of misty. 

/Okay, acceptance is one thing, but chill./ “Calm down. You’re gonna give me the wig.”

Willow smiled a little, looking embarrassed, then managed a tiny half-shrug. “I just… I’m sorry I didn’t get it. That I wasn’t… more supportive…”

Guilt was a little more than she could handle first thing in the morning. “Wil, stop it. It’s not like you knew, or…”

The gleaming red head jerked up. “But I _should_ have! I was your best friend, or should have been, and this is the kind of thing I should understand! I mean, between orientation stuff—because, sort of vaguely-bi lesbian, much?—and the whole occult symbolism of opposites thing, and just, the demonology of… I mean, I _knew_ , right? At least, by the end, with the shadow-play thing, if I was paying even a little bit of attention and not just so absorbed in my own grief, and Kennedy...”

Buffy couldn’t. It was just all so belated. “Okay, stop. We were all a mess. None of us had a second to breathe, much less look up from our own issues to be there for each other that year. You’d just lost Tara; you deserved to find comfort wherever you…”

“No.” Will looked away, a set, pale expression touching her features. “We’ve had _so_ long since, and now I know why you’ve been so messed up; and that… That one awful year…” Tears had filled her eyes, and now one welled up. Rolled down. “All I can think is, maybe if I did—maybe if I was there for you with all this—maybe we’d still be…”

/Oh, wow…/ “Wil…” This was such a can of worms. “Things… happened the way they happened. I… needed who I needed after… coming back. We can’t change that now. I couldn’t imagine it. Not anymore. He…”

“He’s what you need. I get it.” Wil’s gaze trailed away back down to her plucking hand. “I just, you know, really miss you Buffy. Really miss us.”

/Yeah./ “Me too,” Buffy heard herself whisper. /But I’m not the one who ran away./ Closing her eyes, she remembered what Spike told her. /Gamble on it, or no?/ But now was the moment if any. “Look. I get you staying away ‘cause you thought I’d be mad. About Kennedy and the… spell. And yeah. I probably would’ve been.” Really, she still thought Wil had been a reckless idiot, and the rage curled inside her every time she thought about it, and no wonder they’d broken up. But. “But Spike says it’s more.”

Her friend turned into a Willow-shaped statue. “Oh, yeah?” she asked sounding kind of oddly-strained. 

“Yeah, he, um, says you feel like bringing me back was what… um…” Oh, god, what if saying it out loud hurt her friend too much, or reopened old wounds, or…

/But what if it heals us, too?/ Buffy had learned, by dint of some really hard work over the last year with Spike, that talking things out was worth it in the end, no matter how much it hurt… and that being all avoid-y only led to estrangement or much more painful shouting-matches in the long run. 

And, she remembered what it was like to feel like she had killed the person she had loved more than anyone, because she had done something out of love, without knowing the consequences. It was different, of course, and what Willow had done had been manipulative and out of self-will rather than a giving of self in a broken moment… but the results had been the same. Something beautiful had been lost, the world had turned unrecognizable, everything had gone to shit, and, struggling for familiarity, she had ended on the inexorable road to putting a metaphorical sword through her lover’s heart. 

Buffy knew all too well how very long it could take to forgive oneself for that sort of transgression. And for Wil… there would be no returns, exchanges, refunds, or relief for that one. Her only comfort was that her lover was in heaven, not trapped in hell. But it was also Willow’s torment, because no way could she ‘save’ Tara from such a place. 

Her love was lost to her forever. “…Wil, what did you, um, pay, in blood, to bring me back?”

“What? Oh.” What followed was the performance of a lifetime; and a completely, utterly false one if you knew Willow Rosenberg. Willow smiled. Leaned back in her chair, all self-assured looking, twitched a shoulder like she was blowing it off. “Dark Magick stuff, you know. Something I got off of the black market. No big. I mean, it cost a pretty penny, yeah, but…”

Tells everywhere. “Wil.”

“No, seriously. The spell called for a trade. _Vino de Madre_. Wine of Mother. It’s poetic, but it’s really just…”

Buffy stopped her right there, holding up one hand. “Okay, see, if there’s one thing I’ve learned living with a Master vampire, it’s that ‘wine’ and ‘blood’ are almost one hundred percent of the time an interchangeable synonym-thing when it comes to poetic, magick-y language. I mean, life, when it comes to vamps, sure; but also me and Dawn; and then there’s the Catholic Church thing, which, that’s the only reason the whole crucifix thing even _works._ Spike went on this whole diatribe when we were running up the coast last summer about Bacchus, and whatever the Greeks called him, Dyo-something…”

“Dionysus,” Willow supplied weakly, looking shell-shocked.

“Yeah. That’s the one. And how wine used to be used to make the water drinkable because the alcohol killed the sewage in it or whatever—so, life, or death if you didn’t have it—but they thought people were nuts for drinking it straight, because it made you act crazy and it was a waste. That drunkenness was a gift and also a curse from the Gods…” /Beer bad./ “And something about how because of the life-death connection, the God of Wine later got translated into blood gods, and those magicks became all about divine inspiration and blood…”

Willow flinched, looked away. 

“…So the Church harnessed those blood-magicks into their symbols in the war against the vampires by taking back some of the blood-magicks to fight the one threatening everyone…” Buffy waved a hand around in the air near her skull, well aware she was making a hash of the brilliant explanation Spike had given her that had sounded so incredibly eye-opening on the way here. “And the transubstantiation thing, and that that’s why they started the whole drinking wine deal, as like this prophylactic thing because they were under siege…” Spike's voice, declaiming in her head about the old church and medieval practices before the Inquisition, and, _"They weren't above doing a bit of magicks themselves, pet, if it assured they came out first in the fight against demonic forces. Not that I blame them. They were well aware of what was about."_

Wil shocked her when she jumped to her feet. “Okay, look. None of that means that _Vino de Madre_ is anything…”

“Blood,” Buffy murmured. “The debt’s always paid in blood.” /“ _Blood is life, lackbrain,”/_ the Spike of long ago chanted in her mind _. /“Why do you think we eat it? It's what keeps you going. Makes you warm. Makes you hard. Makes you other than dead. ‘Course it’s her blood.”/_ “If you didn’t pay enough blood from ‘the mother’…” She frowned. “What mother? To what mother? Why…”

“A baby,” Willow whispered, looking haunted. “An innocent, okay? Not because… of the innocence, but because it balanced the scales. To bring back someone so virtuous, such a heavy hitter…” 

/ _Virtuous_./ It was ridiculous to apply that word to her, even if she got why They… A ‘heavy-hitter’, okay, but…

It slammed into her then, belatedly, what Willow had just said. /Oh my God… Wil, you did an apocalyptic _baby_ -sacrifice… for me? That’s literally everything we fought against for years!/ God, what did hellmouth-living do to literally everyone?

Wil stared at the floor. “So I… I cheated. I couldn’t…”

/Oh. Oh, thank God./

“I… lured a fawn over. You know, a baby deer. And I… cut her throat, and…”

Buffy bit her lip. /Oh, Willow./ 

It was almost worse. “See,” she heard herself say softly. “That’s the problem, right there. It wasn’t about the age. It was about where _I_ was. The person who had to take my place had to be… clean.” /Not that _I_ was, but I was the Powers’ rep, or one of ‘em, so…/ “A baby’s the safest bet.”

There was a short, shocked silence, then… “Oh Goddess…”

Buffy felt like a murderer herself to say it, but… “You cheated them, Willow. You didn’t send the right kind of soul as payment. Or, not even payment, but you know… Like you said; the scales have to balance, or it throws off the entire system. The Universe, whatever.” /No wonder I was so wrong for so long. Because I was the focal point of that imbalance, and because I draw my energy from a source that had been thrown out of balance, just by my being there./ 

It should have filled her with wrath, but she really just felt numb in retrospect, and horrified at the massive debt her once-arrogant, shortsighted friend had incurred. The incredible, enormous forces Willow had played with like an idiot and thought she could just… _bend_ them to her will. “So They came back to set it right, before it could all fall apart. Osiris or whichever God you ripped off. They came and robbed the till at gunpoint later, to get everything set right, because you actually thought you _could cheat the Gods.”_ She didn’t have to spell out what—or rather who—They took. It wasn’t like they didn’t all know. They all knew who had been the best of them. They all knew who they’d lost, what it had taken to set the balance right again. /To set _me_ right again./ 

Maybe it wasn’t necessarily on purpose that it was also the person most precious in the world to the witch who’d swindled Them… but it had probably been a nice bonus to a bunch of vengeful, irritated otherworldly beings tired of being dicked around by someone on a plane so far below them it was like being jerked around by ants. Someone who hadn’t been able to, or hadn’t wanted to look far enough, to see the massive ramifications of her having not paid the full toll for her transgression against space, time, and the wonted way of things.

/And, my God, Wil, you did it _twice?_ / “What did you pay… with Kennedy?” Probably best to know if they had another major, devastating death en route, or if her ex-bestie had actually killed a baby this time, which…

Willow looked down. “Different spell. Different installment plan. A little smarter in my old age.” Her voice, though, sounded broken.

“Wil…” Buffy was trying exceedingly hard not to sound forbidding, but if there was something they needed to prepare for…

“It was… more like what I did for you, when you got shot. Only she was a little further gone, so I…” She flinched. “Stopped time? So she couldn’t… go on. That way I didn’t have to bargain, or take her away from somewhere. I… held her in limbo till I could reorder the events that caused her death. Did a time-loop. Made her…” A peaked, pale face turned away, into the morning light now showing around the southern edges of the house and touching Mediterranean waters. Fingers of sun, as they crept through the curtains, made highlights on her features, showing a face carven of ivory; a woman now, not a girl, much older than they had been even a few years ago. Lined with pain and loss, addiction and grief… and so much wisdom gained.

And still, in many ways, so unwilling to lose more. Buffy got that, yes. The selfishness. But what it must’ve done to Kennedy. “Made her what, Wil?” she pushed, almost-gently. Not too gently, though. 

Wil sighed. “Xan told me what happened. What you guys told him; about how Spike got staked in LA, but it didn’t stick? So when we were on our way back to Scotland and she… got…”

It flooded Buffy; a frozen feeling. “Oh, man…” Spike said he hadn’t had time to… go anywhere, but still. What a big damned risk to take!

“Yeah, well. It was all I could think of. So, yeah. I guess I made her relive it. Her death. A couple of times, till I got it right. Held her in between, so she couldn’t go on, till I could make sure she wouldn’t die.” Wil shrugged it off, tightly. “I guess it made sense after that that she decided not to come with me. And I’m not allowed to call her Kennedy anymore. I have to call her ‘Rourke’, now…”

/Oh./ “Her last name?”

“Yeah. We’re… never gonna be close again. And she _hates_ the magicks.” Wil’s voice shuddered painfully, everything in her clearly agonized. “But she’s alive.”

/So you lost everything, again, either way. But you have to count it as a victory, because at least you didn’t lose the person beyond reckoning. Oh, Wil./ Buffy bit her lip. “I’m sorry. But like you’ve said, I’ve seen those time-loops, in Hell-A. They saved our asses a few times; mine as well as Spike’s. And I get it, because watching him dust…” It didn’t bear thinking about. “If we didn’t get that chance to fix what got him, he’d’ve gone… wherever, and I’d’ve never gotten him back again.” /I’d’ve been alone there. Alone in hell./ “So I can get how they can be good.” 

She had to realize, though. “But think about this, Wil. The entire city was in one for almost five months. Everyone who was there starved, was tortured, died… and came back to life in the end. They remember _everything_. The PTSD is off the charts. There is literally no therapy strong enough for what everyone’s been through in LA. I can’t even imagine what the… What’s the word? The ramifications are gonna be of that. And Angel can’t take that back. He did that trying to save everyone from Wolfram and Hart… but it doesn’t change the results.” /Intentions don’t mean anything in the face of… that./ “So yeah… I get where Kennedy’s coming from.”

Wil nodded, looking away. “Yeah. Me too.”

Buffy struggled with it. Sighed. “Spike and I… learned something really important while we were together there. Something key, about our relationship.”

Will lifted her head, startled. “You learned something really important about your relationship… in hell?”

Buffy felt a slow smile touch her mouth. “Well, a lot of really important somethings, but one is key.” The smile faded. “Wil, consent is everything. We don’t know what someone else wants, even if we think we do. And what the other person wants is so totally hardly ever the same as what we want; even if you feel sometimes like you’re completely in synch. You have to have a _conversation_. Otherwise, the cost might be more than the other person’s willing to pay.” 

Willow recoiled, averted her eyes.

Maybe time to drive the point home about some other ethics, if it would help later with all the groundwork they were about to put into place. “I also learned something really key while I was there about my relationships with demons, people, my job; everything.” Buffy hesitated, thinking it through. “Sometimes what we think is the right thing to do for everyone turns out to be the thing that hurts everyone the most. Because when we’re coming at stuff, we’re doing it without all the 411. Sometimes, even if it kills us, it’s better to wait and ask questions, do some more research, than just go in guns blazing.” /Look at what it did to all the Potentials, what we did in Sunnydale./

Wil’s head shot up, and her eyes were blazing now. “Even if waiting destroys you both?” she demanded. “Gets you killed?”

/Or maybe even destroys the world. Yeah. Because look at the fallout now, with so many potentially-ready-to-go-rogue-out-of-loneliness-and-rage Slayers out here, if we can’t keep ‘em on the right side with enough good feelings of virtuous mission-y stuff, and keep ‘em _not_ feeling like I did; like a weird, ambivalent mercenary./ 

Accordingly, Buffy didn’t waver. “I’ve learned that I’m a cop, Wil. I’ve been invested with extraordinary power; more than the average bear. _Just like you._ Definitely more, anymore, than I need just to survive. I’m not even outnumbered anymore. And because of that… I’d rather die myself than indiscriminately kill things and pat myself on the back about it and say it was a virtuous death… because the power I’ve been given comes with a responsibility. That responsibility is that I have to do everything in my power to make sure _the other guy_ goes home that night, if I can. Even if it might be at the expense of my own life.” She leaned forward. “I’d say that kind of applies to you too. If you have a choice between using your power and not, most of the time you’re gonna have to think about it first, decide whether it’s really a good idea. Because you have a responsibility to not just randomly throw it around and close your eyes to the consequences.”

Wil was clearly floored. “But… you didn’t _choose_ this. I didn’t choose the magicks. It was given to us for a reason, so of _course_ we’re supposed to…”

/Oh my _God_ , Wil, you still don’t _get_ it!/ “It’s not important anymore that we weren’t given a choice, having it. We’re _choosing_ to use the power we’ve been given now, which means _how_ we choose to use it is what’s important. Understand _that_ , Wil, or more people are gonna die or be abused by what we have been invested with.”

Wil swung away, clearly horrified. “You think I’m a terrible person.”

Buffy shook her head sadly. /I guess I have a new perspective on us that you don’t, since, you know, living with an old-ass vamp./ “I think you and I are both very young, still, and we’ve both had to learn how to deal with a lot of power without much ethical guidance. Or, in my case, crappy ethical guidance. And you… kind of had some scary-ass teachers too, before you found the right ones. Who, I assume, kind of told you some of this same stuff, when you were in England…”

Wil didn’t respond. She did tense, which Buffy found telling. “Would the Devon Coven have been cool with…”

“Aluwyn said…”

Buffy blinked. “Who’s Aluwyn?”

“Never mind.” Wil had shut down. 

Well, crap. Wil had found a new teacher. One so not in England. “Wil…”

No response. “Okay. Just know… I’m not mad. Or trying to hate on you. I’ve been there, on my own road. I get it. I’d’ve done… plenty of insane stuff to get Spike back if I had what you have. I’m not even gonna pretend I wouldn’t. The only thing holding me back is knowing that… After… the scales balanced…” She was so not going to say ‘after Tara died’. “…That was the first time I felt… right again.”

Even without saying the name, her whispered confession broke Willow. It was there in the movement of her body, the dejected slump of her shoulders, every line of her being. “It means something that that was the first time since I came back that I didn’t feel like part of me was still being held hostage… there. So… We don’t know. The ramifications. And I… I got just a tiny glimpse of what it’s like even being a _messenger_ of the Powers when I was in Hell-A, and it’s _massive_. Like, _beyond_. They see things we can’t even imagine. A limitless expanse of possibilities. I don’t think our brains could even hold it; no matter how much math you can do. So I can see how the Gods would just be like, _‘Seriously_ , tiny witch-human?’”

Wil held up one hand, devastated. “I got cocky. I won’t again.” It was a dejected whisper.

She had to shore her friend up again. They needed her. Just… right-sized. “You’re _amazing_ , Wil. What you can do… No one else can. I felt just the _edges_ of your power yesterday, and I can’t even _imagine_ what it must be like to carry that every day and not be overwhelmed. I mean, I get how it’s addictive. How it can twist your mind up. I only feel that high when I’m on vamp blood and having a fighting-slash-sex-fest…” Wil winced, but Buffy pushed on, because this was important. “Or, you know, holding the Scythe after same. But if you let it convince you you’re a God…”

Wil dropped her upheld arm. “I know. I need to… remember that I’m still human and I don’t know everything. That there are rules for a reason. Tara…” Her voice broke. “That was all she ever tried to tell me. I just… couldn’t listen.”

It broke something in Buffy too, because Tara… She had tried so hard. Gently and with tough love and… it had almost been enough. But too late, because she had already been gambled away; that courageous, wonderful, strong, amazing woman, and _god_ , Buffy missed her. /And if _I_ miss her, how much must _Willow_ …/ 

It brought her to Wil’s side. Allowed her to brave the possible brushoff to pull her friend close. “I’m so sorry, Wil.”

To her relief, Wil snuggled in. Clung. Held on.

And finally cried.

***

“You alright, pet?”

Buffy nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure. “Wil thinks she deserved the torture. Deserves everything that might ever happen to her. Losing family. Everything. Because, Tara.”

Spike grunted and pushed away from the wall to close with her. “Long road from that for Red.”

“Yeah.” Buffy lifted her eyes to her vamp, watched him approach. They had the house to themselves again, finally. Some comfort was in order. A lot of reconnecting. “Anyway… can we talk about something else?” She was kind of over thinking about sad things and dead people for now. She wanted to feel alive. /I got mine back. Didn’t even have to pay. I think that means… we _earned_ this./

Spike sidled a little closer. “Yeah?” he asked, a faintly amused tone entering his voice. “What you wanna talk about, Slayer?”

/Oh, now you’re gonna play innocent and dumb blond with me?/

Grabbing his t-shirt collar, she dragged him up close to her, so that he had her pinned up against the wall. Pulled in a long, deep breath of his scent, eyes closed, then opened them hungrily on his. It was deeply unfair that, standing together this way, she couldn’t _quite_ reach her bite on his neck unless he stooped obligingly. 

Well, she could take care of that. Driving her fingers into his hair, she yanked his head down hard against her neck. Shuddered bodily against him as his cool breath struck her bite, and considered swarming right up his torso like a flagpole. 

His hands stilled her; gripped her waist, sliding up. The backs of his fingers brushed one rock-hard nipple. “Buffy,” he whispered, very softly... and the claim was awash not just with need and hunger, but also tenderness.

/Oh./ “Okay,” she whispered, and dropped her hand away from his neck to thread her fingers with his free ones. “Slower, then.”

“Yeah.”

So she pushed away from the wall, dancing with him, and led him down the hall.

When they got to their room, she stripped off his shirt while he lifted his arms to help her, quiet appreciation in his eyes for the assistance. He moved in close then, untucked her blouse. “Could’ve, I suppose,” he informed her in satisfied tones, “now you’ve taken to wearing skirts again. But…” His eyes drifted to the bed.

“Easier to get away with skirts when you’re not dusting fledges every night on a hellmouth…” Her reply was briefly muffled as the shirt came off over her head, and her arms descended, naked, to his shoulders as he cast it away to the floor. 

“‘Preciate that fact no end. Useful things, skirts.” He slipped his hands down to cup her ass through thin cotton, lowered his forehead to hers. “Flip ‘em up, off to the races.”

She let a little amusement bleed into her tones as she set to work on his jeans. “There’s still such a thing as underwear…”

“Easy thing to get ‘round, those…”

“Says the guy who’s stolen or wrecked practically every pair I’ve owned since 2001…”

“Thought maybe if I kept on you’d get the message and give over wearing the bloody stupid things.”

She fought down a giggle as she shoved her hands under his waistband and pulled him closer by the convenient and very satisfying handle of his most excellent butt. “Was that the message I was supposed to get?”

He was moving against her now, just a little, which was nice. Especially since he had gone back to mouthing her scar. That always had her right in line with any priority that remotely involved hips doing things. “Well, yeah.” 

“Mmmm…” /What was…/ “Vampires. No such thing as finesse.” Probably she should get rid of the skirt and get a leg around him, and why weren’t they already on the bed? She shoved impatiently at his jeans.

He lifted his head to glare at her as his pants fell down around his bare ankles. “Oi! I resent that! I didn’t tear the ones on the balcony at the Bronze…”

Her breath hitched in memory. “No,” she murmured. “You didn’t. Which…” /Oh, the hell with it./ Reaching behind her, she got a handful of blanket and yanked the tangled, rumpled bedclothes to the floor. The room was a disaster anyway. Got a tighter hold of him, neck-first, and tipped them both backward onto the cushy, flat surface. “You shouldn’t remind me too much of times when you walked away and left me all…”

Spike grinned at her, left hand already creeping up her thigh under the still-extant skirt. “All warmed up and no finish? As I recall, you got off just bloody fine…”

“You weren’t in me. It only half-counted.” /Probably just wanted me to chase after you later. Always wanted me to come back for more. Spike’s early-days insurance policy./ He’d known even then how desperately she’d needed to come on him. The freedom it had given her after so long forced to hold back. How much she had loved it, from the start, to watch him come undone when she ground down and lost herself on him; and the power it had given her to let go completely and feel in _charge_ with it.

He snorted as his fingers reached the crux of one thigh, nudged aside her very wet panties. “Would’ve decked me if I tried anything more.” A cool finger trailed inside, stroking lightly at her slick, heated folds, and she jerked up toward him involuntarily, throbbing in between the now and memory. “B’sides; what I was doin’ got you hot enough. Damn near had to choke you to keep you quiet…”

 _His fingers in her mouth, at the end, her biting down as she came on his other hand, shuddering and arched back against him. The feel of him rutting fiercely against the cleft of her ass; and knowing that anyone could have seen, if they looked; anytime. Dirty girl, dirty girl… and_ god _, she had loved every second of it. Had hated herself for loving it, but… she had still come so fast and so hard it had damn near blinded her._ “Maybe…” she whispered as his fingers found her again, and again; pressed up against him breathlessly. “…We should try that again… sometime.” /Without shame, without guilt. And with a lot… _more_./

“Yeah?” He sounded elated just thinking about it. 

Her breath hitched. Caught, her legs jolting open. God, just thinking about it and she was _pounding_. “Yeah. Maybe… a lot _more_ of that.”

Everything stopped for a second… and then his forehead was against hers, and he was breathing unnecessarily hard of her inordinate arousal. “Oh, Christ, Slayer, we are gonna do that soonest.”

She could breathe. She could even talk. “Date. But first…” She bucked up against him, rapidly running out of usable phrases. “Want you.”

“Yeah,” he whispered… and then, to her shock, he rolled away, over on his back. Laid there for a moment, eyes soft and still as ponds on her face. 

“Wh…”

“Can you… take me first? I need to know for sure that you’re really here. Haven’t felt you properly since…” He shuddered, the trembling of it rippling his entire body. “Need you, Buffy.”

It tolled through her, his urgency. Reorganized her every impulse in a flash. “Okay. Just let me…”

He was already there, his fingers unbuttoning the skirt with swift economy. She kicked it and the underwear off and was atop him; lying flat, looking into his eyes while he lay, stroking her hair a little where it hung around them like a curtain. “Buffy,” he whispered again, and looked at her like salvation. Like home. 

“I’m here,” she promised, locking her gaze with his. “Never leave you.”

“Never leave me,” he answered, and he was quivering now, the desperation written all over him. 

“Okay,” she repeated; a bare whisper, and pulled him up against her. “Come here.” This was why he’d wanted to come to the bed. Take it slower. He needed the measured, quiet violence of mutual possession, not the fast, thunderous mating of claim-without-bonding. 

Sex was secondary, here. A means to an end. Not that it wouldn’t be fantastic, but… “How much do you need?” As a vamp, he seldom required even a quarter of the stimuli she did before being bitten. Just the bite itself usually had him in pieces. But if he wanted some loving first, she could obviously do that too.

It was just… he sounded really distressed. And he _felt_ …

“Please,” he whispered. “Need to be yours again. Then… Whatever you want, for however long you want.”

/Oh, God, William…/ He’d been adrift for days again without her in him. It had probably made him almost completely nuts. And the last time he’d been like that, without her holding onto him…

Well. Bad things happened to good vampires when they had a blood-leash just lying around in the dirt like a wholehearted gift left unwanted in the throwaway pile. Not that that was how it had gone this time, but… Spike, even more than most vamps, was supremely terrible at being alone; and he had spent way too much of his vamp-life unattached. Split sire-bond, bad nest-bond, then basically no sire-bond… and then after that, what she’d unknowingly done to him. 

The last few days were a bad echo that needed erasing, stat. “I’ve got you.” Pulling him up close, she shuttered her eyes against his neck. Drew in the scent of him. He smelled like shampoo and of their shared bodywash, and under it of cotton, and faintly of the cigarette he’d smoked this morning, and of leather, and a little of burning—he’d been out, then, traipsing along beyond the protection of their shaded porch like an idiot—and of tea, because he’d taken to having some in the mornings now, brewed himself because, “You bloody Americans couldn’t make a decent cuppa with an instructional video”. Underneath all that, he smelled like _Spike_ , which was…

Home. 

Once one sense was filled with him, she opened her mouth. Tasted him; with just the tip of her tongue first. He promptly juddered up against her, his hips, his entire body given up to her mercy. _“Buffy…”_

He was hers. /Mine./ Tasted like hers, filled her senses with him. With home and with oneness and wholeness and his particular smell-taste that heralded what would come when she took him into her. Opening further, she laved her bite, his neck, his throat, with her tongue; and with little nips, till his hips were beating an endless, restless tattoo and he was keening, arched up against her, head thrown back and eyes crushed closed. “Buffy!”

Reaching back, she caught his cock in her hand. Lifted up; pulled him blindly into her. Heard his broken cry, muffled against her hair, because he knew it was time. Another hard, fierce lick, a nip, and… “Mine,” she informed him… and bit down; a hard, sucking bite. Ground in deep, till she found blood. /I will take you on; with everything it means. Keep you safe, keep you in me. Hold you here, in my heart./

As she swallowed, felt the bright thickness of his blood in her throat, felt the bright edges of power begin to perk inside her, he shuddered, and shuddered, and shuddered. And came, hard, arching up with a soundless shout against her teeth. And his orgasm rocked through her being to blaze under her skin and spread through her loins.

Reclaimed and owned, he stayed locked against her, as he always did, until she let him go. It was on her to gentle him down; and she did, finally. Released his throat with a slow caress up and down his back, her nails loosed from his shoulders so that he could unclench from his rigor and breathe again. 

His breath came in sobs. An old reflex made absolutely necessary, in this moment.

Luckily, being as she didn’t come with that feature, she didn’t have to lick him closed the way he did for her. He didn’t have a pumping heart, so of course the minute she stopped sucking, his bleeding oozed to a stop, and his healing began. He would close up completely when he bit her in turn. 

“Better?” she asked him softly, the renewed claim vivid and dazzlingly intense inside her like a living, breathing thing. 

He was. She knew before he spoke, his words a slow, relieved gasp. He nodded, though, forehead pressed once more to her crown and making sounds that might have been her name, but were mostly purry-growly things, deep in his chest, and sounded like gratitude.

His voice was shaking. And the emotion, between them… 

He was just this close to tears. God, he’d been terrified he’d lose her. “I love you, Spike.”

His hands, briefly loosened, clenched tight against her waist once more. He nodded and let out another shaky breath. 

He needed reassurance. She could give him that. 

Leaning over, she dipped into her nightstand. Pulled out something they didn’t use all that often. Laid the soft leather against his throat, where it could press against the bite and remind him he was safe. Tucked the end firmly into the buckle. Pressed lightly so that he shivered, eyes open now and fathomless on hers. And steady again. “Love me,” she whispered to him. “Show me.”

He sat up. Rolled them, to lay beside her, and lowered his face to her throat. Ran a caressing hand down her body, between her breasts, eyes shining, the only thing he wore the circlet of black leather with its beautiful cutout pattern in crimson silhouette. “Never leave you,” he whispered.

She cupped his face, dropped two fingers to press them to his adam’s apple, just above the taut line of leather. “Never leave me.”

He dipped his head, went to his work, left hand sliding on down to pull her worshipfully across his hip, his body, right hand cradling her head. Lost himself in giving to her the way he loved to do, and let her feel what he felt in doing it; what he meant by ‘serving’. Sunk in his tenderness, his worship, and… “I love it when you do that,” she murmured to him as his impossible mouth found things to do at nipples, belly, hips, and everywhere in between that were unfathomable, sinful, wonderful… “But I want you.” And rolled over to bring him home. 

He made a little _‘growf’_ of appreciation when she grabbed his hair and shoved him down between her legs, shook his head to bury himself deeply. /My beautiful monster. My perfect, wonderful man./

It happened sometimes, like this, after she’d had his blood. Riding high on the sensation of it, but used to it now, she could achieve some kind of weird, floaty headspace where, perking and almost in another realm of sensation, she could almost get lost forever without going over the edge; till she found some kind of endless, magical plateau. It was pretty fucking fantastic; especially since he never seemed to get tired, and in claimed, submissive mode, appeared to be happy to stay where he was all day. God knew she could feel it in him if he was getting bored or upset with her; but he only went on making happy noises like he was prepared to outlast her till the end of eternity, lost in his own sensory wonderland… and for the record, anyone who said vampires weren’t the best lovers in the universe simply hadn’t tried one. /Or, at least, not… God! The _right_ one./

The great thing about vampires, though, aside from sensory wonder and cue-reading and unflagging energy and the whole not needing to breathe thing… They came equipped with a failsafe orgasm-switch. And eventually, she wanted hers. 

Reaching down, Buffy slipped her fingers underneath the collar. Popped the buckle open. “Want you,” she said again.

His head lifted slowly, and the little scrap of leather dropped away. He nudged her, face glistening. Gave her a little lick. “You sure?” He dropped to his elbow and smirked, rolling his tongue. “Could do with another twenty minutes alone with your sweet cunny…”

“Get up here.”

With a sigh, he pushed away to crawl up her body. Caught her leg and tugged it back up over his hip. “Ready for me, is it?”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the offer.” She nudged up against him pointedly. “You seem… prepared.”

“Always ready for you. But you know I could do forever if you’d let me…”

She stroked his damp cheek, ran her fingers into his hair. Gave it a little tug to free some curls; easier to do these days now she’d managed to wean him onto Buffy-approved hair-care products. “Such a giver.”

“Selfish bastard. You’ve no idea.” He trailed surprisingly soft fingers down along her throat, her neck. “Where is it this time, pet?”

Buffy frowned slightly. “Would you judge me if I wanted it somewhere new?”

That set him back a little to eye her, slightly nonplussed. “Where’s that, then?”

She felt unaccountably shy, but… “Well, I mean… We don’t really care about it if people know, right? So keeping it out of public skin’s not a thing anymore…”

“Buffy, you show off your neck to all and sundry every soddin’ day.”

“Right, so…” She managed a nonchalant little shrug. “I was sort of thinking it would be… kind of fun if I had a spot or two where…” She blushed, in spite of herself.

“Alright, now you’ve got me on the edge of my bloody seat. Spit it out, Slayer, before I lose my mind.” He looked enchanted by her sudden descent into modesty.

“Okay, so what if we were out somewhere sometime—like at a club or something—and you were just… you know; petting my arm, or whatever…” The rest came out in a rush. “AndnoonebutusknewthatIwasactuallygettingofffromitrightinfrontofthem?”

He remained very still for a second… and then to her horror he burst out into delighted laughter and tugged her right up into his arms. “Christ, I love you, you gorgeous exhibitionist. Bloody hell, that would be brilliant, you know that? Just to think you’d let me sit there and get you squirmin’ like that, with no one the wiser, an’ you lookin’ innocent as you please, till you’re goin’ off like fireworks on my lap right there in front of the whole soddin’ world.”

Just thinking of it made her damn near come right then and there. She had to breathe a little through her nose before she could speak. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

He sobered, lifted a hand to cup her face. “‘Course I’ll do it, you mad bint.” Rolled his tongue behind his teeth and scanned her body with lascivious intent. “Probably it’ll work even better tonight, since you’ve already had my blood. Faster you heal, the faster the nerves build the new pathways.”

She blinked at him, startled. “How do you…”

He smirked at that, fingers sliding up along the inside of her left arm. Goosebumps leapt up in his wake. “‘S how all this works, pet. Teach the body new messages, yeah? ‘Expect pleasure here, not pain. This isn’t dangerous, this input. It’s a good bloody thing’, yeah?”

“Oh,” she answered, shivering. “Right. That… makes sense. It’s…” His nails scraped lightly over the delicate, sensitive flesh on the inside of her elbow, and she sucked in a deep breath. “That’s basically what’s happened with… my Slayer-sense around you.”

“Same for me,” he answered, his low rumble a predator’s singsong of mutual want. “Or, suppose more it’s about wantin’ the danger.”

“Yeah.” She was forgetting her words again.

He shifted over her. Lifted her arm a little, and his other hand slipped down. Tickled lightly at her clit. Unattended for a little while, her nether bits trembled back into awareness, and Buffy let out a low, broken moan. 

“Oh, I liked that one, Slayer. Do it again.”

“Will you get inside me, for God’s sake!”

His fingers slipped away for a second, and he was pushing at her entrance. “God,” she whispered, surging up to meet him. Wrapped her legs around him to drag him in. 

They rocked together for a while, Buffy almost groaning at the feel of him. And then his fingers were back, and his mouth was nuzzling at the inside of her arm, and she was going to disintegrate. A new bite was always different. A little painful, but in a very good way. This was a super-delicate area, but he would be gentle. And it would be… “Can you do both?”

He hesitated for a second, then… “Can I make you last that long, I’ll try.”

She would try to stay with him long enough. She wanted both. Ambi-dextrous, public erogenous zones. Just the thought of it was… Well. Inspiring.

His fingers slipped briefly away from her clit to caress the inside of her right elbow, tickled there; a damp echo of what he was doing at her left. She quivered then, arching upward as he pulled both arms down, till her fists were at her ass and he was driving her with punishing snaps of his hips. “Oh. My. _God_ …”

The pressure he got from this position was unprecedented, and she was going to fly apart, she was going to unravel, she was going to…

She was going to come right _now_ , when was he going to…

She almost missed it when he lifted her right arm. Bent, one hand seated behind her neck to keep pace and rhythm as he drove into her. And then, while she locked up tight around him and forgot to breathe, she felt the sharp, sudden burn-and-ache of his fangs, the quick pull; just one, and a lick, and she was coming hard, coming hard on him, and he was coming with her even as he dropped that arm, and she was fighting to stay with him, clenching down with all she had as he grabbed her left arm and sliced in, and pulled, and pulled, and…

It was that second bite that pushed her past overload.

***

And it was the sparking feel of his fingers sliding over the new bites that brought her juddering back to the surface. She blinked her eyes open and frowned at the too-bright room, the faint hints of burning-smell, the strange pattern of black marks on the walls, the altered décor. It took her a moment to figure out what was going on… 

Oh. Right. Her vanity mirror was gone, and the walls were scorched because witch-fight. And her legs were currently strangling Spike, so she’d better chill before she cut him in half with the scissorhold. “Well, okay,” she managed, stupidly. “You’re gonna have to stop that if you want me to let you go.”

“Who says I do?” he answered, sounding amused and very sated.

“Oh. Well…”

He rocked his hips slightly, and she reacted automatically to slap at him, though she could only manage to reach, maybe, the edge of his shoulder, which was pretty useless. “Stop that, you jerk.”

He chortled a little and halted, but went right on caressing the new bites like a smug bastard, and he was going to make her jump out of her skin if he kept on doing that. “Seriously, are you trying to make me nuts?”

“Sorry.” He paused. “Just never had a matched set before now.”

/Oh, wow./ “Admiring your handiwork?” she asked him dryly.

The mop of disorganized blond curls lifted, and dancing blue eyes met hers. “Honestly, yeah. Came out nice, considerin’ I was in the hell of a hurry there at the end.” 

Okay, well… she had to give him that. “Fine, let me see.” She tugged her arms away so she could employ her hands to push herself up into a sitting position. He very helpfully shoved a pillow behind her back, without relinquishing his real estate inside her body in the slightest. Not that he really could, since her lower half seemed to have not the remotest intention of unlocking from around him anytime soon. _C’est la vie_. 

With a better vantage, she lifted her arms to inspect the bites with a critical eye. After all, aside from the ones on her thighs, these were the first ones she could really see very well without a mirror; and definitely the only ones she could lift up and get right in front of her nose; get a vampire’s eye view of them, as it were. “Huh. Nice job,” she complimented him, and meant it. She’d expected at least one of them to be a little more ragged than the other, or at least for one or the other to be slightly offset, since he’d had to rush… but no. They were both almost exactly in the same alignment; damn near perfectly parallel when she held her arms out in front of her… and, as per the usual Spike aesthetic, very neat and tidy. “How the hell do you do that? Especially when you have to aim to get both teeth in the vein? I mean, I know I’m being all… clinical, but those dorks at the hospitals take forever sometimes when you have to go get a blood test or an IV in or when you go to give blood at a donation place…”

Spike snorted balefully. “They’re _human_ , Buffy; or at least most of ‘em. Can’t smell the blood, can’t feel it, nor hear it thrummin’ and purlin’ along in there. I could trace every vein and artery in your body with my eyes closed. Were I blind, I could’ve done that, if not so soddin’ fast.”

She stared at him for a second, because, well… sometimes it really, really hit her that he was a _vampire_. That he saw her, on some level, as… edible. He’d subsumed that to see her as a person, if a really sexy and yummy one… but on some level she was always going to smell and taste like the thing he lived on, and… “Is it like… infrared vision or something? Can you, like, _see_ them?” Better to be fascinated than messed up over it.

He sighed and pushed up a little. “Hell if I know. Never have seen any other way than I do now to have a comparison, do I? ‘Cept when I was a spook, and that was…” He frowned. “Well, now you mention it, everyone looked a sight different then. Weird an’ solid an’…” He gave his head a firm shake, like he was throwing off a bad dream. 

Buffy untangled her legs with an effort to release him, reached out to touch his cheek. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just… interested.”

He shrugged slightly in a clear attempt to pass the whole thing off as no big deal. “Better than disgusted like you were once upon a time. Reckon I’ll take it. It’s just…” His eyes opened on hers, pained. “You’re not food, Buffy, yeah?”

“I know.” And she really did.

“Doesn’t matter what I see, smell, hear. Even at the start, it wasn’t a thousandth of what you were, what you are…”

Okay, this was going places she’d never meant it to. “Spike, I never thought…” God. “Like, I don’t think you see me as…” She waved her hand around her head, searching for a useful comparison. “I dunno, exposed. Like that idiot Warren…”

A shocked laugh escaped him. “Christ, I bloody _hope_ not. That was _not_ at all fucking attractive.”

“Well, he wasn’t attractive _with_ skin. But I was just curious about how we’re different, is all. I wasn’t…”

Spike leaned forward to catch her face between his hands. “I’m made to smell and taste and hear, sure. And _read_. Everything about a person. Not just what goes on under their soddin’ skin, yeah? And when it comes to you, you could have treacle under yours, and I’d want you, because you’re so fucking amazing I’d dust just to sit beside you and listen to you talk.” He lifted one hand to stroke back a fallen lock of hair. “Even when half the time you say mad things or make no bloody sense…”

She rolled her eyes at him, warmed by his earnest words wrapped in the frank appraisal. “Hey, I’m getting better.”

“Yeah. Less of that Valley Girl shite…” he teased.

“And you’re less of an asshole most of the time…” 

He tugged her to his mouth, kissed her. She sank in, tasting herself on him, and his frustration, and his love. Shoved her fingers into his hair, bore down…

“Do appreciate the interest, though, pet,” he murmured, pulling away.

“Mm?” She tilted her head against his, eyes closed. Then, “What was it like?”

“Hm? What’s that, Love?”

Maybe a tender area, but… “Feeding like that, after so long?”

He went very, very still, and stopped even pretending at breathing. 

/Oh, crap./ “Are you… okay?”

Nothing. Vamp-statue-guy.

“You sure… sounded okay,” she tried again, tentatively. “And from my end it felt…”

He shivered and pulled away. “Fuck. I forgot you’d…” His face, the link, closed down. “Christ, I’m sorry, Buffy. I didn’t think of… Oh, bloody hell.”

/Oh./ “It’s okay. It was kind of blunted by the magicks thing.”

“Oh, balls.”

Buffy shifted against him, leaned in. Kissed him again, slow and gentle. “I said it was fine. And I really wanna know if you’re okay. And if, you know, you’re _more_ than okay, that’s fine too.”

He let out a slow breath against her lips. And something cracked inside him like floodwaters being held back. “Buffy, it was like getting to come after edging for years. Can’t put into words how good it was, and it scares the bleedin’ hell out of me, because with that one, at least… I don’t feel all that guilty.” He closed troubled eyes, dropped his head, shook it slowly against the inside of her shoulder. “If it were some other git," he murmured, muffled, "I would, likely, but that one…”

She resumed stroking his hair, so he'd know she wasn't angry. That she simply accepted. “I know. And that almost makes it worse, because you feel like you should. Or at least, if you _could_ feel guilty, it might keep you from wanting it again?”

His head lifted away, eyes staring frankly into hers. “When did you get so buggerin’ insightful?”

“I know you.” But it explained so much, now; about why he’d so badly needed to be claimed by her again; and without whispering or growling the claim back in turn when he’d bitten her. Not this time. He hadn’t said ‘mine’ to her, had kept it one-sided this go-round… Probably he had said ‘yours’ instead, to turn it around, while she had been too ‘busy’ to pay attention.

He would only avoid claiming her in return if he needed to feel owned for a while. And that made sense now, because that meant she could, if necessary, command him. 

Aside from a few mutually-agreed-upon games in bed, Buffy had never used her claim over him to do so. But if need be… /God, do you really think so little of yourself, Spike? After all this time, and with the soul riding herd on a demon who didn’t want to disappoint me even _before?_ And he was hungrier back then, that demon, and didn’t have Slayer blood every few days, wasn’t mated and happy, so I think you’re safe./ 

But he was shaken right now. Didn’t trust himself. Was instead trusting her to hold his leash for a while; for the sake of his soul, and for the sake of their relationship. She could, of course, do that for him, till he felt stable. But she would let him know that she believed in him; whether-or. He needed to hear it, till he could believe in himself again, even if… /You’re kind of an idiot, William. Did you _hear_ yourself in that basement after The First… The second you remembered, all you wanted me to do was stake you. And it wasn’t because you thought I wanted to, or because you thought I should. That was part of it, sure… but mostly it was because you didn’t want to live with it. So stop being a dope./ “I know you, William, Spike, Pratt.”

He trembled a little, then lowered himself back to rest against her. “Yeah, you do.”

“It’ll be okay.” She said it in full confidence that she was speaking the truth, and ran her fingertips lightly up and down his back in reassurance.

He snorted dismissively, voice snarky to hide the tight. “Yeah? And just how the bloody hell do you know that?”

She stroked the back of his neck, kissed the top of his ear, since it was all she could reach. Gentle the frightened, wild animal. “Because I believe in you.”

He shivered again, buried his face in her neck. But his tension bled out, finally, and he stilled in her arms to rest.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The dynamics of keeping Spike fed while in hiding, part whatever, will recommence in the next chapter, and will hopefully be enlightening as pertains to their relationship. I think it an interesting chapter, since we haven't really touched in on that yet, here in their new home grounds.   
  
Thank you again, y'all. Your support as I add to this lovely established relationship keep me afloat while I flail in denial over the one that's in a slow state of agonizing dissolution over in the other fic, WAAAAAHHHH...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so... since when I wrote these, they just came out however the heck they wanted to, I ended up faced with a dilemma when they broke up into segments this time around. I had decent breaks as far as word-count, but it comes out with an idea sort of left hanging midair when it comes to conceptual follow-through, so I'm gonna have to post some kind of incredibly massive chapter to avoid that awful fate. I hate doing that, because sometimes people really get overwhelmed. Sorry about that. Argh.

He didn’t go out for days, though, after that. Not till Buffy came very close to using the claim to _make_ him do it. She wouldn’t command him, for sure, but it was starting to become something close to a phobia, and she really wasn’t any more of a fan of him bagging it than he was. For a number of reasons.

“Do you want me to go with you?” she asked finally, on the tenth day.

He whirled around in the kitchen to stare at her, eyes blank and distant over the empty mug he used for reheating blood when he did use hospital stuff. Which was all gone, now, by the way, so it was kind of do or die at this point. Especially with the way he’d been dragging it out a half a pint here and there like he was rationing himself or something. Time for another visit to the back door of El Poniente or the mortician’s... or he had to find a donor. And they weren’t exactly flush with cash most days. It would take him quite a few card games to get enough money for the kind of blood he’d need to go back to bagging it full-time. 

Supplementing here and there was one thing. What Spike had been doing was, essentially, free. Like, she supposed, anyone else with a liquid diet. Breastfeeding moms didn’t have to pay, but if they went to formula, all the sudden, wham. New expense. If you could, why not stick to what the body made? /You know, if no one’s dying/ she thought snarkily to herself, and watched him struggle with it. “I’ll come,” she prodded calmly, “if you want me to.” Because she knew he didn’t. He hated the very idea, had made that incredibly clear to her way back when they had started this.

Something unnamed seemed to swell in the bond between them. Burst. “Bloody hell, Buffy, you know I don’t!”

/Alright then, you dope. So let’s move on and solve the problem./ “Well, neither do I, but I will if that’s what gets you back on track. Not that I think you need me there. I trust you.”

His hand clenched down, hard, on the handle of the mug. She jumped in spite of herself when it broke off. /Well, there goes that one./ 

He’d really liked it, too. Liked the stupid legend on it. _‘Besame’_ , it had said, in flowing Castilian, _‘Soy feroz.’_ ‘Kiss me, I’m ferocious’.

Snarling, he threw the broken mug into the sink with a clatter.

Buffy sighed and leaned back in her chair, crossing her ankles. “I mean, me being there would probably just inhibit you more. Though, in a way, that’s kind of the goal. But I really don’t think you’re gonna n…”

“Fucksake, Slayer, I _don’t_ need a soddin’ babysitter! I’ve been doin’ this since I was a fledge!”

She felt her mouth turn up at the corners. “And right now you’re using me as a stand-in for a sire. Which is kind of creepy, but in a way it implies that you’re afraid you have the self-control of a fledge. Which we both know isn’t true, so why don’t you get out there and prove it to yourself so you can get past this…”

He whirled back to the counter. Hunched over it, arms pushed out to full extension and head sagging between his shoulders. “It’s not that buggerin’ easy, Buffy.”

“Why not? You’re not gonna go out there and drain someone, or you’d’ve done it already.”

He pushed away from the sink very abruptly, the link whirling with uncertainty, defensive rage, and a thousand other emotions. Turned on his heel… and stalked out. 

/Well, that went well/ she thought as she listened to his steps recede down the hall beyond the kitchen. A second later she could hear him, pounding away at the heavy bag under the smoking-slash-workout area. 

Best to leave him to it for a while. 

Funny that that was where she had spent most of her time when he had gone out to find a donor back when they’d first moved here. And she had been the one insisting on a renewed claim, then, out of her own insecurity rather than his. /Oh, how the world turns, and times change./

His curses floated through the house, his ragged emotions through her being. Maybe she should go offer to spar. Except… No. Might get uglier than it had in years, between them, and that would lead to more hurt feelings. Not the best plan. 

If he broke the bag, they’d just have to get another one. 

Wouldn’t be the first time.

When they’d first arrived in Almerimar and started setting up, Spike had brought back a nice, heavy, canvas and black-leather bag from god alone knew where and plopped it down on the floor of the little smoking porch on, what had it been? Their third night there? _“Hey, pet. Look what I found.”_

He’d been proud as she’d ever seen him; all but bouncing on his toes. _“Okay… where did you…”_

_“Won it in a game. Or, rather, won the dosh in a game, then traded up from summat else. Found a bloke had this; figured we needed it more than that bloody socket-set his woman kept tryin’ to pawn off on me. Soddin’ Kerflaws, always tryin’ to put one over on everybody…”_

She’d eyed him with some amusement, and no little suspicion. _“You win everything ‘in a game’. Just how many games are you in already, William?”_

That had earned her a narrow-eyed glare. _“Didn’t nick it, if that’s what you’re implyin’.”_

_“I wasn’t. Though, if you ever do ‘nick’ something and someone ends up banging on our door demanding their cheese-grater back…”_

_“What the bloody hell are you talking about, Slayer? If I’m gonna steal somethin’, it wouldn’t be…”_

Needling him was really just far too much fun. _“Oh, like you’re gonna tell me that you got those chairs for free, on the strength of your smile, because you told a bunch of demons some sob-story about needing to nest with your Slayer honey and kid sister, and all the sudden they’re falling all over each other to ply you with domestic goods out of the kindness of their demon-y hearts…”_

_“Oi! I got every single thing in this place with good, old-fashioned wheeling and dealing and wagerin’ and swindlin’…”_

_“Aha!”_

He’d caught her pointed finger in his fist, and leaned right into her face. _“Don’t ‘aha’ me, you mad chit. I didn’t swindle a few blokes around this town, I’d get the reputation for a soft touch, and…”_

He never got to finish before she’d caught his face in her other hand and pulled him down to kiss him lightly on the lips. _“Just don’t wreck our standing around here. I don’t want us to be pariahs. We’re gonna be here for a while; and it’s a lot smaller town than Sunnydale.”_ And when he pulled away to stare at her in shock, _“What kind of wagering?”_

Her curious tones seemed to have staggered him. _“What’s that, pet?”_

_“You said ‘wagering’. Wagering on what? Please don’t say bullfighting, because that’s just depressing. And gross…”_

_“They do that in Pamplona, Love, and only in July.”_ With an exasperated sigh, he’d dropped down onto the nearest of their newly-acquired chairs to blink warily up at her, fumbled in one inside breast pocket for his cigarettes. _“You gonna have me runnin’ like this for the rest of our time, innit? Never knowin’ which way’s up?”_

She’d smiled smugly down at him. _“Yes.”_

_“Bloody hell. Got me by the short-hairs, don’t you.”_

_“You love it.”_

_“Soddin’ nancy, that’s me.”_

_“I own your ass.”_

_“Fuck me if you don’t.”_ He’d lit up, pulled in a long drag, held it in his lungs for however long. He hadn’t even sounded regretful about it as he’d sighed, leaning in against her thigh to let her trail her fingers through his hair. 

_“Thank you, Spike, for getting so many nice things for us.”_

That had his head jerking up in surprise, and his eyes had gone from contemplative to warm; bluer than the Mediterranean. Smoke finally drifted from him as he’d answered, sounding startled and heartened. _“Yeah. You bet, Slayer.”_

They’d remained silent for some time, looking out along the faint, rock-lined path toward the town, and then, after several quiet minutes had passed, _“Dog-racing.”_

_“What?”_

_“That’s what I’m wagerin’ on. At least, most times. Till I can find a decent, regular poker game.”_

She’d blinked, fingers stalling for a second in his hair. And then, /Oh./ And the memory had drifted back in, from another life, another time, another them. /“The truth is, I like this world. You've got... dog-racing, Manchester United…”/ _“So… you’re combining work and play?”_

He’d grinned broadly at that and pulled in another drag. _“Best of both worlds, pet, if you can get fun and profit in all at the same time, innit?”_ And tugged her close, turning to open his legs, bring her in between them. She’d gone willingly enough, to eye him over crossed arms. _“Only thing better is combining sex and violence… and I get that at home. Makes a bloke a bit torn on where to be, but definitely satisfied.”_

She’d lifted an eyebrow. Tilted her head pointedly at their new punching bag. _“So… then why bring that home? If you’re so happy with, you know…”_ And she’d darted a playful cuff at his ear; or at least, playful for them. Anyone else, it would’ve taken their head off. 

He’d dodged it easily, of course, and come back grinning. _“Got it for you, Love. You won’t hit me as hard anymore as you need to to really blow off steam, no matter how much I beg. So yeah. Might go through a few…”_

 _“I don’t pull my punches with you!”_ she’d exclaimed, stunned at the accusation. _“I don’t_ have _to! You’re stronger than you were before, is all, Mr. Slayer-blood and human-sourced and not eating pigs superhero vamp!”_

That last had _him_ blinking. _“Oh. Didn’t think of that. Just figured you were bein’ gentle with me.”_ He’d lifted his head to watch her with stern eyes. _“Which you don’t bloody need to be, you know. I love it when you’re everything you are. Can I not block you, I’m not soddin’ good enough to be yours, yeah? It’s not the same as when we were in that dark place, and I’m not gonna think it is if you really cut loose…”_

 _“I’m. Not. Holding. Back.”_ She’d had to fight not to grit her teeth; to hold back tears at the implied accusation. That he would even _think…_ /God, how long have you believed that I…/ For one thing, it would be dishonest, and she was way past done with lying to him. /As if I even _could_ , when you can _feel_ it when I…/

 _“Alright.”_ He’d cast aside the half-smoked cigarette to cup his hands over her shaking fists. _“I’m sorry, Love. I just thought…”_

 _“I_ don’t _lie to you. Not anymore. I’m never going to lie to you, ever again, you stupid, boneheaded, jerk-faced…_ vampire!”

He’d stared for a sec. Lowered his head. And she’d been amazed to feel regret flowing between them. _“Oh, Christ, I’m sorry, Buffy. I never meant… Oh, bloody hell.”_ And he’d dragged her into his lap and kissed her, full of remorse. And, well, there had been sex; kind of angry on her part, insistent and loving on his, and, you know, fences best mended without words, sometimes.

After, they’d hung the heavy bag together. _“Still useful, innit? For workouts, when I’m not about?”_

_“Oh, you give me plenty of workouts, between here and the bedroom, but sure. I’ll take it. For if, say, I’ve just had a nibble on you and then you’ve somehow magically crashed and can’t keep up…”_

His gleaming gaze had held all sorts of promise.

The bag had, in fact, come in handy. Specifically because she’d promptly wrecked it within a week, on the first night he’d gone out… Well. Hunting wasn’t precisely the best term to use, anymore, but it really was more or less the same strategy; just with different results. /Kind of like fighting with a paintball gun. Ish. You leave behind bruises, but no permanent damage, so good metaphor, right? Better than the cookie-dough thing, for sure./

_“You sure you’re okay with this, Slayer? I’ve got a bit of dosh left from that last game. Can go to the little hospital, see if they have any old blood, or find a funeral home. Sure there’re some about. Or, you know, there’s that one Teighlif bar, Krzahks. They probably carry human-sourced, if you’re willing to pay. Bit overpriced to get blood at a bar, but…”_

She’d shaken her head, tried to keep the tension out of her voice, her body, the bond. _“No. For one, why pay tax and a cover charge just so you can eat? Do they have tax here?”_ They’d been over this. At length. _“And for another…”_ /When you’re living almost entirely on the not-so-honest pursuits of a guy who’s just really good at cheating at cards… or apparently stupid-lucky at betting on dog-racing, I guess? God, I need to find something to do with my skills to help out in that department. Something not Doublemeat-related. Maybe I can be a bodyguard or something. Though, to who, in a town with six thousand humans and a demon-population in the hundreds is, you know, questionable.../ And she really hadn’t thought this whole retiring thing through. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to become some kind of kept woman, and fulfill the whole ‘blood chattel’ stereotype everyone in the demon world just assumed from one quick glance at her bite-scarred throat. 

/Problem being, I wasn’t even getting paid when I _was_ doing my job, so now that I’m not… What the hell do I _do?_ /

The Watchers Council had been excellent at ensuring that their tools were super-unprepared for the real world, and thus way dependent. And now, here she was. Survived past her expiration date, on her own sans Council support; almost twenty-four and totally incapable of finding her way through life as a functional adult, and it was just not okay. _“Next time we’re out, we need to sniff around for some way for me to use my skills in a, you know, lucrative manner. Since we all know I’m not poker-girl, no matter how hard you all tried in Hell-A.”_

He'd not been fooled by her stiff upper lip. Unsurprising, since he could feel her inner turmoil. _“Yeah, not your bloody fault you’ve a face like a window, Love.”_ With a short huff of a sigh, he’d squatted before her. _“Buffy, I know you must feel at loose ends here, yeah? But it’s only been a little over a week. Give it a mo’. We’ll slot ourselves in here, and you’ll find your way. Just, it takes a bit longer for you to get established in the demon community than it does me, innit? You have to build cred I have just by flashing fang. Uphill battle for a retired Slayer, since everyone’s gonna start out bein’ scared to death of you.”_

 _“Yeah, I guess there’s that.”_ She’d waved a hand vaguely, dismissive of other options. _“And, you know, the human world is kind of meh with the job-opportunities; even if my Spanish wasn’t incredibly questionable-to-nonexistent. I mean, I could do the waitress-y thing again, but I…”_

 _“Bugger that!”_ He’d come to his feet, damn near raging _. “You ever get anywhere near that shite again, Buffy, and I’ll kill everyone in the place and drag you back to the nearest demon-haunt by your hair. You’re worth so much more than that sodding deathtrap of a life…”_

_“My only other skill is killing for a living, Spike.”_

Her calm self-denunciation had stilled his inadvertent rage _. “Oh, bloody hell, Slayer; you have so many more skills than that. You’ve got leadership experience past accounting, for one. That’s managerial-level shite, right there. Not to mention all the sodding martial arts rubbish. You could teach that shite even to human tossers. It’s just getting someone to recognize the credentials as aren’t on paper.”_ He’d sobered finally, belatedly recognizing the problem. _“‘S just, that mostly means the demon world, yeah? Not those sodding human fuckwits as can’t recognize a goddess when they see one, ‘cause she doesn’t have a buggerin’ PH.D by her name…”_

 _“I love you.”_ Spike was the best cheerleader in the world. Any world; at least when it came to her. She could devalue herself until the cows came home—what even _was_ that expression? What cows?—and he would always be there to tell her she was being stupid and that she was the MVP of all reality or whatever. Because to him, she was. And god, did she ever lean on that.

Frustration made the punching bag her friend; a frustration mostly born of fear. Dawn, busy racking up a new high-score on the PlayStation Spike had scrounged from god alone knew where in the midst of the ongoing ‘Crash Bandicoot’ wars, had avoided commenting beyond a quiet _, “I agree with Spike. Don’t work at another burger place, please, Buffy? The DMP almost killed you.”_

More punching, more bag. Because her baby sister was just as terrified as her guy was of watching her work, if it meant doing it at the only other kind of job she knew how to do, and that was… Terrifying? Lowering? 

Helpless-making. Brought back horrible memories; of being so desperately broke that she’d been petrified Dawn would starve and it would be her fault. That horrible, sinking recognition that the social workers were probably right; because her younger sister was living only on school lunches and leftover DMP garbage every day—the burgers Buffy could sneak out that were not necessarily part of her paid lunch and were technically stealing, since she only got one per shift, not two—while she, Buffy, skipped even the toast-and-maybe-cheap-peanut-butter breakfast, if they had it, so Dawn could eat it, and went to work starving, went to the slaying starving after that—her second job, the one no one knew she had—because the same low-protein, mostly-carb crap day-after-day, and too little of it for her insane metabolism, especially when starting lean, was like eating nothing, and it was so boring and so gross, and greasy, and tiring…

Even worse; the godawful, desperate feeling when she had had to withstand Spike’s knowing gaze on her drawn face. His growing, silent rage, as he, the always-broke vampire, had tried to feed her and Dawn; tried for nonchalant under his quivering fury that she wouldn’t even let him mention it, much less help. She knew now why he had been so beyond frustrated. Because he _got_ it, what it was like to suddenly have to beg, borrow, and steal to afford to feed yourself for the first time in your life, when that had never been a concern that had ever even been on your radar before. 

But, of course back then she hadn’t had the reverse empathy to understand why he had cared so damned much, had thought he was just trying to use it to get in good with her, or… Or she had just not wanted to feel even more indebted to a man who had not only given of his body to her but everything of his heart, his hands, the entirety of his being. How _dare_ he care so damned much for her when she couldn’t love him, couldn’t let herself…

 _‘Got some leftover pizza in the fridge, Slayer, ‘f you want some. Bring some back for the Niblet, will you, or it’ll go over before I get to it. Don’t eat much of that shite, you know. Vampire.’_ Wanting so desperately to say no, salve her pride; but there was no pride left, and she’d been well aware that Spike hadn’t gotten any such thing as a barbecue-pineapple-anything for himself, even if he’d artfully removed a tiny slice to make it look authentic. He liked spicy foods. Burba weed, jalapeños, way too much cinnamon or even chiles in his coffee… Had hated him for it, as if it were his fault; for making her feel inadequate, less than even a neutered vampire slumming it in a tomb. Unable to provide; and hated him for being able to, for having to rely on his probably ill-gotten gains… when he’d only been trying to help in even the miniscule way she had allowed.

No. After that agonizing experience, it was profligate idiocy in her mind to spend money on food you could get for free. Especially if it was the best thing for you. ‘Hunting’ for donors wasn’t like DMP garbage for Spike; it was top-of-the-line health food. Complete opposite economy. He had to _pay_ for junk like pig’s blood, or even for halfway-decent human blood out of the back of the mortuaries or the tiny local hospital; and that one, small as it was, would probably barely be able to help. The local sources were tapped out. The vamps in town, the ones who, according to Spike, were not fledges and were trying to keep a low-profile because they were ‘residents’, all either bagged it part-time or did some kind of catch-and-release, and only killed when they were starving, or losing it, or sick or hurt or whatever. There was even a suckhouse for the down-and-outs. 

/Guess that kind of thing happens even in the smallest towns, and why did it never occur to me before that there was a _reason_ Slayers mostly live on hellmouths? That maybe vamps there aren’t on their best behavior—kinda like the humans, ‘cause, you know, insane vibes o’ evil just a rilin’ everybody up—and not every vamp just murders their way through their entire existence like a cray-cray plague? ‘Cause if they did, the world would’ve picked up on the whole existence of the undead thing a while ago as way more than a movie-myth./ 

/I feel like a duh./ _“Spike, let’s be real. You take too much from these places and we’re gonna be super unwelcome here really fast. We’re the newcomers. We can’t take more than our share of the resources, or we’ll be forcing someone else to kill someone to get their fill, and I don’t want to be the reason that…”_

_“Buffy…”_

She’d lifted her eyes to his, firm and uncompromising. _“I_ know _you. So, no offense to the vampire kingdom, but I trust you a hell of a lot more than I do some rando Spanish vamp with hazy ethics when it comes to playing go-fish with the locals. So get out there and stay healthy. And when you get home… you know… Don’t give me too many details.”_

His mouth had twitched a little, a mixture of regret and acceptance coloring their linkage. _“What, you’re just going to hang about for me to come home?”_

She’d tried her best to remain chill, nonchalant. _“Oh, you know. This nice vampire I know got me this sweet heavy bag to work. I think I’ll pound it into submission for a while when the going gets tough, then maybe Dawn and I’ll watch a movie or something.”_

Unspoken was the corollary that, yes, she would be awake and waiting; not merely because he would need her, after, but because she wouldn’t exactly be able to sleep, feeling him feed. /It’s not because I’m worried about it. It’s because… everything else./

The regret had bloomed into full-blown pain on her behalf; almost enough that he would have said to hell with it. _“No. Seriously. I’m good.”_

_“Buffy…”_

_“Come here.”_

He’d come, watching her uncertainly through a new coat of eyeliner—/Guh/—and hovered at the back of the couch. Aware Dawn was watching them worriedly, she’d pulled him down, kissed him lightly on the lips. _“I said I’m good. Now get out of here before I follow you.”_

That had put an alarmed look into his eyes. _“Right. Yeah. Alright. I’m off, then. Be back soon.”_

 _“Better be.”_ She’d favored him with a warm smile that promised a warmer welcome upon his return. 

That sally had earned her a little tongue-roll and hints of a returning smirk, even as he followed her word to back toward the exit. _“Promise too much, pet, and I won’t be goin’ anywhere…”_

_“Get.”_

He got. 

Dawn had just sat there watching her watch the door for about five minutes after he’d vanished before speaking up. _“So, uh… what movie?”_

_“Huh?”_

_“You said you wanna watch a movie?”_

_“Oh. Right.”_ She’d turned back to her sister, smiled in what she’d hoped was a less-than-distracted manner till Dawn had saved her game and turned off the PlayStation. /I suppose I might as well watch something now, while he’s still… casing, or whatever./ She would save the workout for when he was actually… doing the deed.

She’d been able to lose herself, a little, in the movie. Dawn had, after all, chosen an old favorite. Like, okay, _everyone’s_ old favorite. Heck, even _Spike_ liked this one. He might even be mad they’d watched _Dirty Dancing_ without him. She’d never say it to his face, but aside from being a total romantic marshmallow, Spike was kind of soppy sometimes. /I mean, _soap_ operas, Spike? ‘Dawson’s _Creek’?_ /

Unfortunately, even the most beloved and engaging movie wasn’t enough to completely drown out the link, even if she knew he was trying to dull it for her. She hadn’t felt much of him doing the homework parts. Surveying, stalking, whatever. He’d call it ‘the chat-up’. Mostly just moments of concentration darted through with uncertainty and a kind of tight-lipped determination to see something through. He was all buttoned-down, heavy-lidded control right now, and his strain was making her tense even through some of the best parts of the movie as it bled through the bond…

She’d stood up and started to jitter in spite of herself when she’d felt the faint surge of relief that said he’d made successful ‘contact’. 

_“You okay? I can pause it if you have to go to the bathroom.”_

_“What? No, I…”_ On the movie screen, Baby was in Johnny’s room, trying her level, virginal best to seduce the not-entirely-unwilling (and very sexy) dancer. Lucky girl was currently tentatively touching Patrick Swayze’s very excellent butt, which, you know, was engaging filmmaking, but Buffy’s head was very much elsewhere.

/He’ll lead her out, somewhere, next. Out of whatever bar, out into the alley or something. Just like he used to do, except this time, no force. He doesn’t have to. He’ll just look into her eyes. Make it seem like they’re…/

 _“Seriously. Why couldn’t I have had a Patrick Swayze for my first, instead of Nick? I mean,_ look _at him!”_

 _“So says every girl since 1980-whatever,”_ Buffy answered distantly. _“Not that he seems like he’s the best in bed or anything, but, you know; at least the morning after wasn’t terrible.”_ /All you have to do, really, is hum a little vampire song at them, and they’re jelly for you. Do they think it’s some kind of… what? Crazy hickey thing, and then pass out, and wake up, and write off the holes tomorrow as something they imagined, and wonder if they got roofied, or…/ Maybe there was still mental harm, if he wasn’t… Well. Doing what he normally would have done, before-Buffy, so they could write it all off as part of an overall sex-thing where they’d just forgotten the details because they were drunk, or…

 _“You don’t think Johnny seems very good in bed?”_ Dawn sounded surprised by Buffy’s offhand appraisal. Her tones yanked Buffy out of her dark reflections for a moment.

/Oh. Damn, Dawn./ _“Um… not really?”_ /About on the level of my first time… which could’ve been worse—the during part, anyway—and could’ve been better too./ _“Though, granted, this movie’s trying to go for, what? PG-13 or something, so maybe they just skipped all the actual good stuff…”_

Dawn had rolled her eyes and turned back to the screen. _“Just because they’re not doing all that screaming and biting stuff you’re into doesn’t mean it isn’t good.”_

/Okay, you know what? You’ve had exactly one basis for comparison. And don’t make me sound like I’m the kink-mistress. Some of that is just automatic ‘sex with a vampire’ stuff./ Though, to be fair, some of it was definitely ‘sex with a Slayer’ stuff, and she should in no way put it all on Spike. 

/“…Gave me a run for _my_ money, Slayer.”/ 

Buffy had sighed. _“There’s romantic and good, and there’s kinky and good, and there’s a lot in between. And then there’s just ‘barely useful’. And Dawn… there_ is _a difference.”_

Dawn had _humphed_ thoughtfully.

On screen, the dancers were fading to black, thus skipping whatever good stuff there might possibly have been for the after. End of distraction. 

The link, buried in the back of her mind, had blared into focus. Spike had forgotten to keep it closed down. Understandable, since he’d been in the midst of… 

Well. 

_“Dawn, I need to… Go ahead and keep watching, okay? I’ll be back… later.”_ Turning, Buffy had headed toward the new punching bag at full speed with one thought and one thought alone in her mind. /Need to hit something. _Now_./

Some other bitch was making her guy feel this good, and dammit, she knew it was only feeding, but still. 

It hadn’t been this tough in Hell-A. Why hadn’t…

The answer struck her as her fist hit the leather; like a light-bulb going on. /Because you hadn’t claimed _him_ yet, then. You were his, but he wasn’t _yours_. Not as far as your demons were concerned. But now…/

Now, her inner demon was _raging_. As far as that side of Buffy was concerned, this was straight-up cheating. No room for gray areas like meal-logistics, no nice, neat lines between feeding and mate-bites. No. As far as her inner wild-side was concerned this was just unacceptable. Her mate was out there biting someone else, and holy crap, she had not expected this to be this difficult.

But… they hadn’t tried this since they’d closed the claim, either. So. _Jab, kick, punch_. /Damn, damn, _damn_./

When he’d gotten home, she had been working the bag, hard, for almost an hour. The movie was damn near over in the other room, the rousing music of the final song rollicking away. Dawn had paused it once to come check on her, left again at her quick, grunted, _“Sorry, Dawnie, just got to…”_ Straight-punch. Roundhouse kick. _“You go ahead and…”_ Duck, overhead-block _. “…Finish without me, or not. I’ll…”_ Elbow-strike. _“…Make it up to you.”_ /Later. When I can think of anything but leaving here right now, finding him, throwing him down to the pavement in front of the entire world and…/

/What? Show him who he belongs to?/ God, demons were primitive. But apparently so was she, because that was literally exactly what she wanted to do, in the most violent possible manner… Which was why the moment she felt him step through under the overhang, she kicked the bag so hard that it… well… Burst. 

Chains jangling discordantly, one dangling unhooked from the remains, rags and sand spewing from the bottom of the torn canvas and leather, and Spike stepped slowly around the former punching bag to steady the off-center, swaying mass. Eyed it soberly, then exhaled. Nodded. _“Take it outside, is it?”_

_“I should probably… take a second.”_

He’d just watched her. Shrugged slightly. _“‘S been a half-hour, Buffy.”_

His calm answer had only served to ratchet up her tension. Fists clenched, she’d fought to retain her equanimity… and failed. _“Blonde or brunette?”_

_“Oh, hell. I should’ve… I’m sorry, pet. I let you feel too much, didn’t I? I wasn’t trying to…”_

She’d shaken it off impatiently, aware she’d sounded like a petulant child. Tough not to, with an exceedingly id-driven demon-side rampaging around in her somewhere losing its shit. She had somehow never been more aware of that part of herself before this. Before the claim. But now… _“Sorry. Not being fair. I just…”_ A breath. Two, to keep the edge out of her voice. Mostly. _“Did you get what you needed?”_ /I’m a goddamned adult. I can _do_ this!/

Silence, then… _“It’s different for you now, innit? Than it was, before?”_

Another breath had escaped her; this one half-laugh, maybe half-sob. _“Yeah. Apparently.”_

_“I didn’t think. Never thought of maybe why Dru…”_

Her head had snapped up at that, incensed. Why would he talk about his crazy-ass bitch of a sire right now, of all people? Was he _trying_ to piss her off?  
  
He hadn’t backed down; only eyed her thoughtfully. _“Only saying, I never understood before now why she always thought I should be faithful, when she could do whoever and whatever the hell she wanted. But it was one-way, then, yeah? I belonged to her. Back in Hell-A it didn’t bother you as much because it was just…”_

Buffy had bitten her lip. Fought to nod. Accept. _“Just the human part of me; or mostly. Now it’s…”_

He’d stepped a little closer; an invitation. _“Didn’t think,”_ he’d repeated; a quiet mantra of remorse. _“If it was you out there, havin’ to do this, I’d be losin’ my goddamned mind too.”_ Nearer still, to close with her _. “You need to show me who I belong to, I’m right here. Yours. Balls to bone. What happened out there… doesn’t touch that. Know you know it, but if you need to be sure…”_ A little breath had escaped him then, maybe almost as helpless a one as she’d felt. _“Wouldn’t mind the comfort of bein’ reclaimed, yeah? Feel a bit adulterous m’self. Don’t much like it, even if I know it was necessary. Demon and man, I’m a faithful sort. So if you need to punish me…”_

She’d shaken her head, belly roiling with an acid feeling, terribly torn and almost nauseous with it. And driven, almost shaking with the need to take him. To just drag him down to the floor and make him hers again; violently, viciously, madly. _“I don’t want to punish you,”_ she’d whispered, and her nails had bitten, hard, into her palms. _“I just want… Need. To know…”_

 _“You already do. But show me. And I’ll show you.”_ And he’d spread his hands a little in unlimited invitation. _“Open invite, remember?”_

Hell-A, and the desperate need to prove they were real, and safe, and strong. The promise they had made to each other, there. Violent making out, at the least, was always on the table for any mad, sad, or fear. /And now, apparently, for the demon-y sides of us, some claim-y bitingness?/ And, she supposed, if sex happened, they were both grown-up enough about it at this point to be aware of their boundaries when it came to consent. The giving, and the lack thereof. So. _“I’m not… I can’t… I won’t be able…”_ Shaking. All the incredible shaking as she held back a thing that was so strong, so much bigger than herself as she had ever previously known herself to be.

_“To be gentle about it. Get that, pet. ‘S fine. Ever seen me anything less than pleased about that, either?”_

It was tearing her apart. _“I never wanted to be that, with us, anymore.”_

The admission had earned her a little quirk of a smile. An _inviting_ one. _“‘S a part of you, Buffy. Just like it’s a part of me. Maybe it’s about time we let those parts of us back out to revel a bit, yeah? Maybe they’re a bit brassed off to have taken a back seat for so soddin’ long.”_

He wouldn’t be mad. Wouldn’t hate her if… just this once, it wasn’t lovemaking. If she tore into him, and fought him, and rent him, and demanded he bellow to her that he was hers. And it had been so… God. So _long_ since…

Something inside her had snapped, and she was pushing him outside. Somewhere; anywhere. Just, not where Dawn was. Around the corner, beyond the low window of the kitchen. The gibbous moon was out and the white stucco of the house gleamed bright, the sands almost as much. Shadows of leaves from the nearby ficus speckled walls and flesh, and the terracotta tiles beneath their feet were dark as blood. And he was up against the wall, and she was drawing blood in bright flesh with her nails, ripping off his duster. He was helping; had her blouse open—those buttons were gone, pinging on the tile—and then his shirt; torn away, and long scratches all down his torso, and he was growling, eyes blazing into hers as they fought for mutual possession. 

His belt, open. His pants, off. The button to those was gone, too, and she’d wrecked the zipper. Not the first time she’d ruined a pair of his jeans. They pooled at his feet; and her skirt was shoved up and aside, underwear torn a little, shredded at one corner as he flung them callously away. And then his fingers were plunging into her, finding her with rough skill. He was amber-eyed in the dark, looking up at her in fierce anticipation as she rose to wrap herself around his hips and poised. _“Yours,”_ he’d told her, and his voice shook with sincerity. _“Always.”_

She’d attacked his mouth; hard, fierce; drawing blood from them both even if he’d been the one with the fangs. Till he’d grasped her with both shaking hands, one wet, one dry. Till he had been lost and rutting against her belly, her clit, hot with blood; then, lifted over him. Grabbed him one-handed. Pulled him to the brink of her. _“Fucking_ mine _.”_

_“Oh, Christ…”_

And, when he was inside her, clenched down hard enough to hurt him. Raked his neck, his throat with her nails till she’d drawn that warm, new blood. Felt him tremble with it when she claimed him; a bite that had made him roar, and buck, and drive deep; and made them both come like some kind of natural disaster. 

They’d cracked the bricks under the flaking stucco; and that stuff was damn near impervious. 

Somehow they’d ended up on the tile, under the moon. And his eyes were dark again, blue in the night and wondering as he looked up at her; a quiescent demon, tamed by the oldest magick. 

Her own demon, relieved and sated, had grumbled slowly back to rest, leaving Buffy to feel simply tired. No more feral rumblings. Just a vague shame mixed with mostly satisfaction and some nice bruises and… /Oh!/ _“Are you…”_

His hand had risen to cover hers on his cheek. _“Always gonna ask, now, are you? You know I’m doin’ brilliantly. Felt everything I did, yeah?”_

She’d blushed, looked away. _“Maybe I’m trying to make up for all the times I didn’t ask, didn’t care…”_

_“You cared. You just didn’t want to.”_

Sighing, her fingers slipping down along the scores she’d carved along his ribs. _“You’ll… heal, right? I mean, you just…”_

To her surprise he’d lifted his face to press it to her shoulder. Buried his cheek against her neck… and started to laugh. _“Oh, pet. Oh, yeah. But not too fast, I hope. Want to keep a few of these battle-scars for a reminder, a few hours at least…”_

She’d sighed at that, human enough now to be amused at the irony of demonic thinking. _“And we’re back to ‘vampires are weird’.”_

_“Well, then, we did it right enough to put your inner brassed-off demon to beddy-bye, innit? ‘Cause that should’ve made all the bloody sense in the world to you, otherwise.”_

_“Buffy Summers; human-side-up?”_

_“You can be Slayer-side-up with me anytime, pet. We’ll go rounds.”_

She’d given in. Nipped him on the collarbone. _“We’d better get in and find some clothes that aren’t… you know. Rags. Dawn already thinks all we ever do is swing from the rafters.”_

 _“Oh, yeah?”_ He’d sounded amused.

Sitting up, she’d given him a little shove to get him started while glancing around her in the dark for something that might resemble clothing. _“Much as I hate to admit it, I think she needs to get herself some more experience in the wide world of lovers, stat.”_

 _“Thinks it’s good as long as it’s not awful, is it?”_ he’d asked shrewdly.

“How’d you know?”

 _“You did.”_ At her glare, he’d shrugged and helped her locate their sartorial shreds with his enhanced vampire eyeballs. _“Plague of the heterosexual chit in this degenerate age. Most blokes think they’re God’s gift, but mostly they couldn’t find a clit if you gave ‘em a road map, and more’n half wouldn’t care if they_ did _locate it.”_ He’d smirked. _“Don’t know what they’re missin’, do they?”_

_“To be fair, not everyone has gills, like you.”_

_“Gills, hell.”_ Coming to his feet, he’d yanked up what was left of his jeans and held out his hand for her _. “‘S called payin’ attention and enjoyin’ your work, yeah?”_ And then he’d halted with a frown. _“If you tell her to throw in with a soddin’ Ramora demon just to have a nice time, you know I’ll kill you, right?”_

She’d pulled her shirt together, searching for still-extant buttons. Good thing she hadn’t been wearing a bra. Or, bad thing, maybe. _“You’re not serious.”_

_“You’re the one who mentioned gills…”_

Sneaking back in past an eye-rolling Dawn had been bad enough. 

Worse had been said sibling coming into the kitchen the next morning to inform them both in very pointed tones that if they really had to tear each other up and have incredibly loud sex outside for all the world to hear, they could at least have the decency to not leave her underwear hanging from the fig tree like a party-banner _._

***

They’d eventually settled on a system for keeping her guy fed. And Buffy’s inner demon-y bits had finally accepted the concept that he was somehow not necessarily straying, per se, by supping lightly on the occasional partygoer, because he always came home to her to share the profits, as it were. Things had gone on apace and in a kind of nice, workable system for almost half a year… until that business at ‘Drextalcorp’. And now Buffy was really sort of pissed off at herself for asking Spike to take care of that dick Warren.

It had really kind of messed everything up.

Krzahks was about as packed as it ever was. Spike, anxious and hungry, was jittering next to her, just like he had been for the last several visits. Well, at least they’d laid some decent groundwork by now. Even if he was dancing around like a kid who had to go to the bathroom, it might not scare off their latest contact. 

/Nice not to have to rely entirely on my vampire for connections in the demon world anymore./ It was actually a pretty big accomplishment for her, weird though it felt to think it.

Their latest business was definitely being aided by the fact that Buffy had built so many of her own relationships in the area by this point, between her little informal school and the part-time management-tactics seminars she was offering to vacationing business-owners of the demon-variety coming in from Roquetas de Mar, El Ejido, and Almeria. Most of them didn’t care if she gave her pointers in English. What they cared about was satisfying their curiosity. A Slayer—identity unspecified—willingly mixing with demons, and offering tips on how to get the most out of their hybrids, and to work well while submerged within human populations? Eye-opening, and certainly unexpected. 

Yes, it would likely end in their location being outed to the Organization. Not that she was the only rogue or ‘undocumented’ Slayer out there in the world kicking up a fuss. And it wasn’t like Buffy was the only Slayer ever to have come from ‘managerial experience’. The sheer numbers of non-Organization-affiliated Slayers was to her benefit right now. Not to mention that most Organization Slayers tended to ignore rumors in the demon-community in favor of just killing them or avoiding them. If they ever _did_ start to pay attention, question or wonder, Giles would run interference for them, try to pooh-pooh the rumors. So would Willow and Xander. 

That wasn’t her main bread and butter, anyway. It was more of a recent sideline. Actually, what she had ended up doing for the most part was teaching self-defense classes for part-demons who were weaker than full-on demons and got picked on a lot as a consequence. Which, in a way, kind of built into their ongoing schtick as proponents of the demon underclasses, and her own personal and growing reputation as member of the hybrid demon community. Which, by extension, bought some cred for the Slayers as a whole; a helpful side-effect, now, in retrospect.

On top of that, it was fulfilling. It didn’t pay massive dividends or anything, but she was bringing in a steady, if small ‘paycheck’; some of it in Euros, most of it in trade. 

More importantly, it was a contribution. And Spike, as her occasional co-trainer, was there whenever the sun was setting, to help put on demonstrations and generally be supportive. Which was… more than nice. Very uplifting to a girl who was, in essence, building a startup for the first time in her life, as Spike put it, “on sheer balls, bravado, and badassery; Christ, look at you, pet”. 

She’d never built anything of her own in her life, before now. She’d always done what was expected of her by someone else. Even the Slayer Organization had been expected. Yes, she’d helped put it together, in a way… but out of necessity, and in collaboration with others, and in many ways based on an old model, if restructured by the requirements of new realities. 

This was simple, and straightforward, and unrelated, and… /It’s mine./

She kind of even understood Anya, now. Didn’t have the woman’s business sense, but she understood the pride in owning something she’d built. Definitely understood her mother, who had had the business sense, or been forced to develop it anyway. /Thank God I have Spike around to be shrewd guy and do the haggling part for me./ She ran the day-to-day stuff. Spike helped her figure out the incoming and outgoing. Not that he was all that much better with money than she was, but he was more experienced at keeping it changing hands and ensuring that no one was stiffing her when it came to trade-value. 

Buffy was kind of, ‘punch people in the face’ girl. Not much with the diplomacy. Spike tended to find weird psychological ways to convince jerks to make deals. Between her hard work and his quiet backing, the thing was thriving. And by now, five months in, she had a pretty decent reputation with the local underground as an accepted member of the place.

She had fourteen regular students—eleven part-demon, three humans who were somehow attached to the demons, usually romantically, occasionally in some other fashion (one of them was a half-sibling)—and an irregular array of drop-ins. They made use of an empty room owned by Krzahk, the bar-owner, since it had been the warehouse office, but Krzahk did all her business out of the bar itself. The rest of the warehouse, of course, was essentially a distillery-slash-spirits-depository, but the very-large office-space made for a decent (if spare) dojo. 

Krzahk didn’t even charge them rent. Not in Euros, anyway. 

She charged them security. Which worked out fine, since Spike actually had no problem taking that on for Buffy when she was too busy. Heck, sometimes the girls even helped when they were bored, though they had their own pursuits around town. 

Once, Jamal had even tossed out a drunken, handsy Triflekh, though that was less about helping the team and more about the fact that the Triflekh had tried to fondle Maria’s chestal area without permission. _“You know I could’ve done that myself, right babe?”_

_“I know. But. He pissed me off.”_

_“Such a hunka burnin’ werewolf…”_

_“You wanna get outta here?”_

_“I thought you’d never ask…”_

She and Spike weren’t the only ones with chemistry. 

Sometimes. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” He was flipping his Zippo open and shut like a crazed metronome. It was driving her bonkers. 

“Either bite me or go find someone to eat, but stop jittering. You’re gonna drive me insane, and I need to focus on this meeting.” If he didn’t feed soon he was going to drain someone just out of sheer desperation. Not that he was there yet. He’d been a lot further gone than this in Hell-A, and he hadn’t remotely had trouble controlling himself even with her. But. /How long are you gonna let this go on, William?/

Spike turned his burning gaze on her, and clicked the Zippo decisively shut. “You wanna fight about this now, Slayer?” His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was too pale. Too thin. The asshole. 

“Not really,” she snapped, on edge. “But since you decided to come here all jumpy, it’s on you to sit still and stop acting like a hungry toddler.”

Glaring, he shoved one hand inside his jacket. Yanked out his smokes. “This tough love thing you’re doin’ right now? Not my favorite look on you.”

“Yeah, well; martyr’s not my favorite look on you, either. Neither is moody, broody, or any of the above.” Though it maybe explained a lot of why he’d been such a pissy jerk for all the years he’d been hanging around being a pain in her ass in Sunnydale. /It was probably because you were hangry./ “It kind of kills the patient, loving thing I tried for the first week.” /Even though I should be more so, if only to make up for not getting it, before./

He snorted, and she resisted the urge to yank out the stake she had in her belt and drive it into his hand or something, because even if she should be better, the attitude was driving her straight back to old patterns. “I’ve lost patience with feeling you like this,” she hissed, “and I don’t have the luxury of going out and killing you something like a good claim-holder, so you’re gonna have to do something about it yourself, before you make us kill each _other_ …”

“I am… interrupting something?”

Their contact had arrived. 

Sonja—or at least that was the name they had been given—was a Nik-ahk’gehk from over in Adra, a larger city to the west of them. She was one of the more important demon business leaders in Almeria province. She was mostly in nightclubs, but she had her fingers in a lot of other pies. She had attended one of Buffy’s recent managerial trainings in El Ejido, and had come up of her own accord afterward to introduce herself, seemingly fascinated by the concept of a Slayer more interested in interacting with demonkind than killing them left, right, and center. 

They had gotten to talking, the three of them, and contact information had been exchanged—at the time, only with the idea that Buffy might give some of Sonja’s less… adept messengers of the part-demon variety some self-defense lessons—but once all this business with the Military had kicked off and they’d begun putting out feelers with regard to networking, it had been a no-brainer to get in touch on the matter. Sonja was a major mover-and-shaker in the demon world in southeast Spain. If they didn’t at least give her a heads-up as to what they were trying to accomplish, it could be construed as a major insult. 

At worst, it might start a war. You wanted to avoid insulting powerful demons; especially when it came to the quietly entrenched politics of the European demon classes. Buffy had learned that _very_ quickly ‘when in Rome’.

Buffy rose to her feet, Spike echoing the gesture, and nodded to their visitor to join them. The imposing figure stooped to move into the booth opposite them; an awkward maneuver, considering she was about seven-and-a-half feet tall with a few extra, tentacle-y limbs here and there, a lot of fur bulking up her scaly, clam-shelled torso, and, you know, had about fourteen thin, spindly, red horns peeking out of her thick-stranded, burgundy ‘hair’. 

She managed it, though, and inclined her crimson face in greeting as she settled in, almost nicking the wall with one long ear but avoiding a collision with the framed photos of famous local demon celebrities as she laid her spine-edged arms along the tabletop. “ _Como estan ustedes_ _esta buena noche_ , _Asesina-no-mas_ _y_ _vampiro-amante?”*_

The Spanish word for ‘Slayer’ was indistinguishable from ‘assassin’… which was fitting, Buffy supposed, from a demon’s perspective. ‘Assassin-no-more’ therefore sounded comparatively pleasant from her current perspective. And, okay; ‘vampire-paramour’ was pretty accurate, if it kind of reduced Spike to a relative nonentity; a sort of hanger-on without his own merit, which sort of sucked. “We are doing passably well, thank you very much, Sonja.” 

Spike made a sort of subsonic, caustic grumble; whether for the Slayer-adjunct title, or for Buffy’s having glossed over his not necessarily ‘best of’ state. Buffy ignored him to keep her eyes firmly focused on the statuesque demon’s very strangely-flecked gaze. “And you? _Como esta usted?”_ Might as well practice the still somewhat rusty Spanish. Lucky for her, the stuff they taught in schools in California was _Spain_ Spanish. It didn’t help all that much in actual _California_ … but it was useful here. Of course, the last time she’d taken any Spanish classes was back in elementary school, when a little Spanish was compulsory. /Seriously; why the heck I chose to take French in high school is now beyond me./ 

The amused twist to Sonja’s nonexistent lips told Buffy not to quit her day job. “I am well. Many thanks.” 

/End of Spanish./ Well, it would make things quicker. 

Spike vibrated a little harder. Buffy dropped her hand to his thigh and squeeze; and not in a gentle way. 

He tensed, drew in a sharp, unnecessary breath, and darted a glare her way. But he did freeze. Thank god.

Too late, however. Their interplay had caught Sonja’s sharp-eyed attentions. “You are sure you are well, _vampiro-amante?_ You are looking, what is the phrase? ‘Down in your mouth’.” 

Mildly embarrassed, if not for his own sake, for the sake of the meeting, Spike grunted and folded his fingers sharply around his mostly-empty tumbler of cheap whiskey. “I’m doing excellently, thank you, _lider respetado_.*” His voice was steady as a rock, and the jitters had abruptly cut off, the awareness striking that he was going to prejudice their delivery if he didn’t settle his ass down. “We are grateful you were willing to meet with us during your visit to your properties here in Almerimar.” 

_“Si,_ so.” The hairy, horny head tilted again, with interest. “You have said there is a business proposition you wished to share? When _La Asesina_ says such a thing, it brings the curiosity to the boil.”

/And, we’re up./ “Actually,” Buffy began, trying for politely diffident, “it’s more along the lines of… information. As a courtesy in consideration of your very important position as magister of Adra.” It was kind of a bizarre thing, but as the main entrepreneur in the area, Sonja also acted as sort of a judge-slash-executioner in her region as well when it came to demon-y justice; a sort of side-function of all the power she’d accumulated. It was a system that wasn’t exactly unique in the demon world, and Buffy was never going to get over the weirdness of demon politics. 

_“It’s a fairly cutthroat world, the underground,”_ Spike had told her once, early on during their careful insertion into the system here. _“Bit mercenary, but it functions well enough to be going on with; and to be fair, when you get right down to it, a corporate oligarchy’s what’s really in place in the human world as well. Humans just like to pretend otherwise.”_

 _“Sure, okay,”_ Buffy had demanded, confused. _“So then, what’s with all the weird little cults of baby-offerings and stuff?”_ /You know, the stuff I still actually have to step on. And, talk about navigating a weird line in the sand, feather-ruffling-wise…/

 _“Separation of church and state?”_ Spike had answered with a little shrug. _“Just like you lot; still got to tussle with the religious hierarchies and their power.”_

_“Riiight.”_

Spike had given her that look he reserved for when she was being dense. _“You’ve met a few Old Ones by now, pet. Know they’ve left the hell of an impression. Reason demons tend to be pretty ecumenical when it comes to religion. Have to be, since the blighters would have our heads if we didn’t keep up appearances. You know, whenever the bloody hell it is they decide to wake up and saunter back in.”_

/Sure, okay/ she’d thought again, absorbing this.

_“Meantime, make a few offerings for form’s sake and go on about your business, yeah? Much like human churches. Fight a bit between you about who’s got the better bloody Old One, the fancier rites, but other than that... Not that there aren’t also zealots, like that prat Nest and the Aurelian fuckwits, but beyond that sort, ‘s a bit like goin’ to church on Sunday, or even just on sodding Easter, and otherwise mostly forgetting about it the rest of the time so you can go on drinkin’ at the bar and watching bloody football, yeah? Do your bit for Lent and otherwise it’s life—or unlife—as usual. If you’re lucky enough, anyway.”_

It was an interesting point of view on demonic religious politics, the idea that most of the demons she’d knocked off for weird, apocalyptic bullshit had probably fallen into two categories; the serious about it True Believers—like Glory’s midget trolls—and some weekend warriors just trying to check off the boxes to keep someone else off their backs. Which might account for some of the more inept idiots she’d had to do away with over the years, honestly. And, okay, kind of sad to think maybe she might have been able to talk some of them out of it if she could find out who was maybe leaning on them, take out the heavy instead. Like, if there was another Balthazar or Mayor or Lurconis in the mix instead, then clearly it would solve more problems to take out the big honcho than to sit around knocking off twelve flunkies who were just doing the ritual to feed the stupid thing out of fear, or to get a payout, or because they wanted to be left alone to walk the sewers in peace. _“So what you’re saying is, we’re really not all that different?”_

 _“Bit less fighting between us about it than with humans, innit?”_ he’d answered with twiddle of his fingers, _“Since each species has their own personal god. No reason to tussle about whose is the more real or what-have-you, so in that way it’s rather a bit of ‘to each their own’. A Kiriahk isn’t going to sacrifice to bring Maloker back, yeah? And I’m not gonna try to call back Arsgomor.”_ He’d made a twisted sort of face. _“Well; I’m not about to try to bring back any of the blighters; not Archaeus nor any of the rest of those gits, but you know what I’m driving at.”_ A faint smirk _. “And yeah, we’re still different from humans, pet. Got opposing goals, what with demons technically needing to wipe humans out for elbow room, and the religious injunctions to do it.”_ Humor had fled. _“But other than that… yeah.”_

Buffy had rolled her eyes _. “Where do you fall in all this? You know, ‘Maloker’s coming, and he is pissed…’”_

Spike’s snort had been derisive. _“Maloker can be as brassed as he wants, and so can Archaeus, seein’ as I’m already the most disappointing vampire in the history of the bloody universe, yeah? Sleepin’ with the enemy_.” He’d leered at her. _“Any road, I always was a bit of a confirmed agnostic.”_

 _“Oh?”_ That last had surprised her. _“Even before?”_

All sarcasm had died in his eyes, and they’d gone distant the way they always did when he was looking into the past. _“Yeah. Didn’t noise about it much back then. Wasn’t all that popular a thing, to be a free-thinker, but I thought myself a right broad-minded sort. Was interested in natural philosophy—you say science now, Love—intellectualism. At best I was a bit of a Deist; figured if there was a God, he didn’t give two shits what we were on about. What I cared about was finding love and sharin’ beauty.”_

Sometimes he just really melted her heart. The simple, lovely goals of a straightforward man… and somehow he had maintained them into a more wild life, along with a demon’s zest for that love and beauty. /My beautiful, curious, intellectual poet, burying all that under ‘rebel, Punk vampire guy’ for your whole life because if you didn’t, someone might actually _know_ you…/

No wonder he tended to cut through the red tape of demon etiquette and politics whenever necessary. He found most of it ‘bloody boring’, since it got in the way of his general enjoyment of life. 

Right now, of course, not eating was the thing stepping all over his enjoyment of life, but that was kind of all his own fault, the dork. It made him all bad and moody; which made _her_ bad and moody. /Or, okay, bitchy is probably a better word./ She didn’t like snapping at him, but he was back to jittering next to her, dammit, and she was having a hard time not stepping on his foot to quiet him. His hunger and frustration communicated itself to her through body and blood, which made this all about fifty times harder. /I’m anxious enough about this already, dammit, Spike!/ “We’re hoping that in sharing our plans with you, we will find you, if not an ally, at the least willing to permit us to continue without undue… unpleasantness between us.”

“Ah.” Long, scarlet fingernails tapped lightly at the table. “This has the promise of holding much interest for me. I will remain. Continue.”

/Alright. Here goes./ 

Holding her breath slightly for just a second, Buffy let it out in a puff she hoped was inaudible to anyone but the vibrating vampire next to her, and launched into the speech she had prepared; rehearsed for literally hours, with him while he listened, helped her to tweak her delivery, because he was the one who was good at this kind of thing, but she was the one who had to do it. It had to come from her. Even though they’d written it together, come up with it together. Even though more than half of it was from him, because he knew things about the demon world she’d never remotely have considered in a zillion years…

“We have been meeting with local leaders, here in this small area, making inquiries as to whether it might be possible for the demon community to trust the concept of… allying themselves with a Slayer… should said Slayer be willing to recognize, in turn, that there are things we have in common against certain Institutions within humanity who are not friendly to either of our species, and should the demon community who are living quietly be willing to recognize that Slayers in fact offer the possibility of certain… services which might render their lives more comfortable when it comes to ridding them of demonic influences which in fact might possibly make their own lives less comfortable, or too visible.”

It helped that she’d done this three other times now. Even refined it a few times. But the people she’d tried it on so far were comparatively small-time. Locals. Not someone like Sonja.

Sonja was their springboard to El Ejido, Roquetas, maybe eventually Motril, Malaga, Granada…

The rest of Europe. /Start small, Buffy. Dream big. Let this thing grow organically. Grassroots-style; the way mom grew her business. Word of mouth. Not pushy-Slayer-style. Don’t get found out. But… let it breed./ “We believe there is room in between those two forces for a peace to be brokered. I am willing to be that bridge. To be… the hostage between our communities, and remain submerged, in recognition of all I have done incorrectly, and in repayment to those I have wronged while I have been misinformed.”

That part was always the toughest to get out. Because, alright. The part they grabbed onto always went one way or the other, depending on instincts and discernment. The knee-breakers always lunged straight for the ‘hostage’ part. 

Spike’s tension was through the roof; damn near vibrating her teeth. 

He wasn’t a huge fan of the word ‘hostage’ either, though had helped write the damn speech. Of course, it wouldn’t mean ‘tied up in a basement with red pokers’ hostage, but it could, if…

The diplomats invariably keyed in on the ‘peace to be brokered’ segment of things, thank goodness. And Sonja was the latter. Which was likely why she was a leader. “You wish there to be peace between our worlds. A true one.” She sounded like the sort of person who would like to be incredulous, but did not cotton to such things.

Buffy let out another breath, Spike’s thrumming tension subsiding to something manageable. At a previous meeting he had had to restrain himself from a spot of violence that would have seriously derailed negotiations when one of the local leaders had glommed onto the whole ‘hostage’ idea with a glee that had been way too gloaty and beard-stroke-y; like he had already been imagining just what he’d like to do to a Slayer in captivity, and…

Buffy resisted the urge to pat her vampire’s hand. “I do. Sonja, the fact remains, I was just a tool of others who used me to carry on a war that has been going on for too long. So have many others, on both sides.”

The demon magister leaned back a little in the booth to eye them inscrutably.

“And now there are too many of mine,” Buffy admitted; a key point in their argument. ‘The fulcrum of the whole bloody thing’, Spike had called it. Sonja’s response allowed her to jump into the next part of the prepared spiel. They had a whole other segment set up for when their marks went for the ‘hostage’ part. “I would have it that my kind would no longer be tools, and wreak the kind of harm I have done, in ignorance, at an exponential rate. I know that has been of great concern.” 

Sonja permitted an expression of suspicion to cross her face. “This is where I begin to lose faith in your reasons, _Asesina_. You are hiding your motivations, _si?_ For, with your numbers, the guild you have built could destroy our world. Thus… why seek alliance instead, after millennia of attempts to destroy us?”

Assassin again. Murderess. Up to no good. And they had come to the kicker. “It is not simply because we would have no reason to exist if there were no demons… but because that is what the certain human Institutions have come to realize. No doubt, the one which created us considered this a problem all along, but they are gone. Others have taken their place, though, have come to know about our world. And the new numbers for my kind are now a concern for them; as much, they believe, as they are for the demons we hunt.”

Sonja blinked slowly. “There are… militaries who believe that _Las Asesinas_ would turn against humanity? This is foolish.”

Spike laughed, short and mirthless. “They don’t know what they’re dealing with, _lider respetado_ ,” he informed the magister caustically. “They fear what they do not understand. We know it’s true. That encompasses the Slayers now, as well. So they’ve declared war on the girls, as well as on the wider demon world… though,” and he let Sonja see his cynical smirk. “Obviously they’d rather we wipe each other out first, so they don’t have to do it.” He leaned back casually in the booth, laid his arm back behind Buffy to line the back of the maroon vinyl seat; let Sonja see and feel his power. ‘Master vampire: concerned’. “But we all know that humans aren’t what they once were. They have the firepower to take us all on now; and maybe to win. They might even be able to take on the Old Ones someday soon. Think it best we might look to considering… alternatives to previous assumptions, and old ways of doing things. Shake things up a bit, since if we don’t, they might just as soon do it for us.”

For the first time, the massive demon magister seemed truly floored. She leaned back in her seat to stare at them, apparently actually incredulous now as they slid from Spike back to Buffy. “And so you seek… alliance with the demon world… against humanity?” 

It was… too broad. It didn’t allow for gray areas. / _Some_ of the demon world, with room still to do my job, is the thing. But I can also _help_ you./ “I seek… parlay.” Buffy flipped to the next mental page of her memorized speech. “I think it possible that we have been led toward animus for far too many millennia, when we might have more in common than we have in opposition. That we may be fighting a war inherited to us, but which is no longer ours. I suggest… that this world is _ours_ , in conjunction, and that we might attempt to share it.”

Sonja’s horns writhed disturbingly atop her head. Whether that was an expression of alarm, disgust, or excitement was anyone’s guess. Also, ew.

Fighting to keep her face placid, Buffy stayed firmly on script. “And no. I would still protect humanity, for that is my function… but I would prefer to protect humanity against the _right_ threats, and not the wrong ones. And I’d have my kind recognize that often those threats are the same as threats against those like us… and not those, perhaps sometimes coerced to serve them.” And that was as close as they thought she ought to come to advancing an offer of services… not precisely for hire, while ‘submerged’ in the demon world, but letting the demon leaders know that she’d be available to dispatch any troublesome, powerful monsters for them that could be a mutual issue; to their businesses, their assimilation… and, by proxy, to humanity. 

To say it more overtly would be to court a possible challenge, whether Sonja would wish to issue one or not, in the name of beings served not necessarily willingly, but out of expedience, or out of dire necessity. But she was cagey enough to understand what was being said. 

There were a lot of holes to work out in their proposal, and Sonja would see them. She was one smart, tough cookie, or she wouldn’t have risen to where she was today. Like, for instance, their whole proposal to use Buffy as a way out when they were in a bad spot with bigger nasties. But that was also a way out for Buffy and her Slayers, and she’d see that too. Because it was a fine line when they would still have to fight the sorts of demons dead set on killing humans; but that kind of thing, when you were flying a flag of truce, that led to bad feelings.

It was kind of a diplomacy issue, that kind of gray area. They would have to work it out in a way that was mutually-beneficial, and right off the bat; come to some kind of agreement as to how Slayers could protect unknowing humans in a way that also helped human-friendly—or at least not overtly human-unfriendly—demonity remain unhindered in their daily lives. 

Sonja contemplated their offer for an exceedingly long period. The silence dragged out for so long, actually, that now _Buffy_ was jittering. Which she only noticed when Spike’s hand fell to her thigh. Squeezed slightly; an unspoken indication that he thought she was doing fine. And the bond flickered briefly away from hunger-agitation to reassurance-pride.

/God, I love you/ she thought, immediately overwhelmed, and calmed. He would always put aside even his basest needs, for her. 

That was Spike. In a nutshell. She had him. Had his all, at need; even at will. /Just… God./

She couldn’t have picked a better partner. Literally. She had the actual worst picker in the entire universe. Like, her love life was a serious natural disaster when she tried to be in charge of it. But. /This time, _you_ picked _me_. Not even the Powers did that part. You did that all on your own. And changed everything./  
  
“…Would honor this position?”

“I’m sorry?”

“As hostage.” Sonja straightened slowly. “You would honor that position, and remain with us, in our communities. For the remainder of your days, wherever you would live in the world. As you have been. And we could demand at any time that you pay with your life if those like you were to play us false.”

It was a very tense portion of the negotiation. “I would like a contract to be drawn up with demon lawyers, specifically delineating the nature of all clauses, so that the nature of all offenses and infractions could be made clear to all parties first. And I would prefer if a member of the community—wherever we would be living—who is known to follow such contracts honorably would be in charge of deciding whether my function had been honored, should anyone believe there had been an infraction worthy of crossing the lines indicated. But yes. Within those provisos…” Spike’s hand on her thigh had cinched up tight enough that his fingers would leave marks for a week. The worse because, with a contract like that, he wouldn’t be able to fight for her. 

/Well, he probably would anyway./ He’d take it as the best way to dust, rather than live without her. Because no way he wouldn’t try. 

Problem being, if they tried to get out of something like that, there wouldn’t be a single place safe for them anywhere on the entire planet. /God, what are we _doing?_ / “Yes. That is what I’m offering. And I know I’m not a lot, in the face of thousands of years; but I’ve personally done a lot of damage to the demon world. And symbolically… I’m the senior Slayer, so my doing this… It’s a pretty big coup. I’d like to think the offering shows good faith.”

The words echoed slightly around them. /Good faith./ It sounded so strange, put up against a lifetime—thousands of years—of mutual enmity. And yet…

/We’re staring down the throat of what really might be a serious Ultimate Apocalypse, now. For all of us./

A league, even a new system of relating, might be tough to wrap their brains around—for all concerned—but when it came down to a choice between that or extinction? “In my mind, potentially sacrificing myself to save both our worlds seems a small price to pay. I feel like if I can get over an enmity bred into the bone for me… maybe others can as well. Maybe I’m wrong. But I’m sure the hell willing to try if it means we don’t all die.” And okay, that was a total ad-lib, but it had feeling behind it.

There were plenty of holes. Like the demon world’s issues with hybrids. Slayers were hybrids, and would tend to side with the latter against full-bloods. And yet admitting to being hybrids, in the end, might grease the wheels, as well, with the whole ‘acknowledging that we live in the same damn world and finally existing together vaguely amicably’ thing. /And anyway, common enemy. About stupid time we stop letting outside jerkoffs pit us each other against each other in someone else’s names all the time. Because I don’t know about you all, but I’m seriously tired of doing other people’s dirty work in ignorance./ 

Buffy covered Spike’s hand with her own, felt his fingers twitch briefly to lace with hers. /And I would like to know more, finally, about how it really works from other side./

Curiosity might kill the Slayer, but at least she wouldn’t die an ignorant tool like every other girl in the history of the Line. And she’d be passing on that knowledge, so no other girl would be forevermore. /For once, finally, I’ll be choosing my own death, my own ground, my own last damn stand. I’ll be bringing the fight, not just waiting for it to come to me./

The certitude of it calmed the resurgent sparks of terror whenever she thought of all the millions of ways this could go wrong, and Buffy watched calmly as Sonja considered the gravity of her words, and a Master vampire’s serious stare. 

“You are certain. The militaries, they are coming.”

“Yes.”

“For _Las Asesinas_ , and then for us.”

“Not necessarily in that order, but yes.” Leaning forward, Buffy laid her free hand flat on the table. “I won’t insult you by saying I do not believe the demon world could not handle a war. I’m just saying, the demon world is fractured, has no reason as yet to work in concert, might find that reason too late; and that there would be… consequences. To business. To daily functioning. I suggest that by my catalyzing that coming together, and by helping with those consequences, we could be excellent allies in this one. Because my kind are more a part of your world than theirs… and because they, too, in this case, are our enemies.”

Sonja pushed back a little in the booth, clearly impressed by this argument, if none other. “Human lives,” she pointed out flatly.

/Yes, that was the difficult part./ “I’ll… negotiate that part.”

Spike made a noise in his throat. 

Sonja’s eyes flickered from Buffy to Spike and back again. “Your _Asesinas_ , they will not kill humans.”

Buffy sighed heavily. “Have you heard of The Initiative?”

The magister twitched slightly. “An experiment in _Los Estados Unidos*_. Much like the Nazis, they experimented on our kind. You dispatched them from your hellmouth, _Asesina_ , because they hunted on your territory…”

“I came very, very close to killing humans when they were on my ground before. If they ever touch my demons again I _will_ kill humans. I will not regret it; especially if they’re coming after _me_. And these,” she finished grimly, “are basically the Initiative under a different heading.”

Buffy felt Spike shiver next to her; felt his combination of awe at her deadly, predatorial superiority in that moment, and his almost reflexive arousal at same. The latter was inborn in him at this point, and it bolstered her sense of righteousness. What had been done to her mate, to Oz, what the Initiative might have done to someone as inoffensive as Clem, for god’s sake…

/And then they came after me. And they’re still coming./

Just, _no_.

“You would not like it if demons fed on humans in battle.” It was not posed as a question. Sonja clearly thought this was an issue. Which, well. It would take some negotiation, sure. Buffy was not at all under the misguided assumption that, in throwing in with the demon world, the Military were going to get out unscathed if it came to a fight. But then, they hadn’t in the Initiative complex either, and she was so not crying about that. 

/I haven’t shed tear one over that debacle, and I’m not gonna start now./ 

Her job would be to try to ensure that it didn’t come down to a fight. That they could get enough numbers together to make those bastards recognize that they were in over their heads, so that they might just back down. /After all, they can’t really know how truly massive, how organized—or disorganized—the demon world really is. How ancient. And the problem is… it’s fragmented. If we can fix that, get it all under one banner—or even a significant enough portion of it to look intimidating—we might just pull this thing out without bloodshed./

It wouldn’t make the demons happy to post up and then have to go home without rending anyone, but if it ended the conflict in a bloodless way and brought the Military to their stupid senses… 

That was the plan. The hope. The best case-scenario. 

And, yes, she and Spike were well aware that it was also the one with least chance of success. /Which means accepting that in almost every other scenario, there will be casualties. And those casualties will be messy./ Which was the part Giles—and a lot of the rest of her people—were going to choke over. But… /I just don’t see any other way out of this that isn’t gonna end up worse for us in the long run./

Spike’s bleak recounting to her late the other night, of what it was like inside the concentration camps during World War II, still haunted her. The idea of being inside of something like that—of someone like Tiny or Maria… “I wouldn’t like it, no. But I accept that casualties occur in war. If it comes to that.”

Sonja clearly did not believe her, thought she was up to something. 

Time for Spike to bear witness. “I’ve fed on a human while in battle with the Slayer,” he informed the magister quietly, leaning back in the booth.

Sonja looked deeply startled at this revelation. “You have done so, and you have not been destroyed? _El es su socio romántico, si?_ _Sigue siendo su amante?_ ”* 

The last, directed toward Buffy, showed a that of all the things they had said, this last was the thing that had startled the magister back into Spanish. And… alright. Buffy’s Spanish was rough, but she caught enough of that to recognize the root of Sonja’s shock. That a Slayer’s compassion was not reserved for the human side of the divide even unto death-by-vampire, and curiosity as to whether Buffy might extend such grace beyond a sometime-ally of six years and lover for much of four of them. But clearly it boded well in the Magister’s eyes that she had not staked Spike over recent events, romantic entanglements or no. Or possibly because of them; that a Slayer could envision such attachments to the demon world. 

“Yes. He’s my lover. My partner, and he’s gonna stay that way. And yes. He’s drained a human; one who was trying to kill one of our very close friends. A brutal, torturing rapist and murderer. So I gave Spike permission to dispatch him in a way that had added benefit to our situation.” /And we’re paying for it now. But./ She tilted her head slightly, avoiding Spike’s eye. “I’m practical, Sonja. I do what’s necessary. I learned a long damn time ago that I have to make my own lines in the sand for the greater good. I win my wars. And I don’t listen to anyone else anymore when they tell me what’s ‘good’ and ‘right’ and ‘righteous’. I go with my gut.”

Sonja seemed utterly thrown by this. But after a moment, she relaxed very slowly, a new light of something that Buffy thought might be respect dawning in her weird, multicolored eyes. “I had thought _Las Asesinas_ were all very, what is the _idioma?_ Black and white. I did not respect this. But you see things, young one. I would say you have the beginnings of wisdom.” And thin, red lips stretched open to bare a mouthful of way too many sharp, barbed teeth. A smile, maybe. Shudder, much? “You are also formidable. I respect this much more.”

“I appreciate that.”

Spike lifted his empty glass. “Wait till you get to know her better. She’ll scare the hair off your horns, Sonja.”

The magister nodded once, sharply. “I understand why _un vampiro maestro_ would give himself to such a one.”

“Damn straight.”

Buffy smiled inwardly. Spike would have a boner right now, between her general fierceness and their apparent success in threading the needle to hook the local magister’s interest. /Would, except he’s barely got enough blood in him to manage./ 

“I will say that this is very much interesting. I must consider in greater depth for my time before I may respond.”

Buffy fought not to gape at this sudden reserve. /She’s hedging. We put it all out there—put _me_ all out there—and she’s _hedging?_ / Buffy could admit to herself to being privately disappointed, but she certainly couldn’t blame the demon magister for being cautious. Sonja would probably go back to her demesne and have a chat with various of her own contacts, weigh the options, kibitz a bit about whether Buffy was enough of a bargaining chip against all their businesses, et cetera; even debate with them as to whether the whole thing might be some kind of trap. 

It might come out to nothing. But…

All they could do was hope that the groundwork they had laid in this community over the last six painstaking months would bear fruit. /A half a year of playing nice, put up against eons of enmity isn’t much. But it’s all we have against annihilation; for all of us. How terrifying _is_ that?/

“I must go. But before I depart; a toast, perhaps?”

“Oh.” Buffy frowned at her now-empty glass. She’d only been drinking water. Spike had also finished his shot. They were by far too broke to get more. /Awkward!/ “Um…”

“It is, after all, auspicious that we have even met on this matter, whether we will come to an agreement or no, _si?”_ And without consulting them further, one scarlet arm rose, spines shooting out to catch a cocktail waitress’ attention. _“Señorita, por favor atiéndanos, deseamos que nos traigas una ronda de bebidas!”*_

The waitress, a spindly Trelahka named Consuela, turned on one crystalline heel, caught the daunting demon’s eye, nodded. Sauntered toward them. Buffy felt a wave of panic rise in her throat, saw it echoed in Spike’s eyes. This was something they had not thought of when it came to the whole, ‘hosting big-time demon-leaders to talk up the plan’ thing. Because how crappy would it look for them to invite someone like Sonja to chat with them and then not buy her a drink?

Before either of them could come up with something politic to say to decline the toast without screwing everything up, their imposing tablemate was ordering. _“Una copa de sangre por el caballero, si?_ * What is it?” she asked then, turning to Spike in polite deference. “O-positive?”

Spike opened his mouth, clearly uncertain how to respond. “That’s… Ah, it tends to be…”

“Commonly he wishes the AB-negative,” Consuela offered helpfully, because of course they were regulars.

/Thanks, Consuela./ Oh, this was going to be so bad.

“ _Excellente,_ that one then. And for _La Asesina…_ ” Another genial head-tilt Buffy’s direction.

“Oh. Ah…”

“Buffy, she likes _el vermut_ …”

“The vermouth, then. And how is your _enek’tath_ , in this fine establishment?”

Consuela bowed smoothly. “It is well enough, honored one. _Viene rapidamente.*”_

 _“Bueno.”_ A brick-red, clawed hand lifted, scattering Euros over the waitress’ tray. _“Muchas gracias,_ young one.”

Alright, now it was even worse. “Sonja, you don’t need to…”

“No, I must insist that it is my treat, for this has been a most interesting and educational meeting, _si?_ Much to consider.”

It was charity, really, because Sonja was no dummy, if disguised in an exceedingly mannerly way within the excuse of plausible business relations… but it wasn’t like were in a place where they could wave it off, offer to buy the round themselves, or… 

Damn. “Very generous of you. Thank you.” Totally rude to say no, now.

Of course, Spike was straightening, offense building inside of him, because his pride got all prickly over the most insane things.

Buffy kicked him sharply in the booted ankle, under the table. Before he could do more than subside grimly the drinks were already back, being slid onto the sticky surface by the discrete Consuela. 

“Not so. As I have said…” The smoking thing Sonja had ordered looked hella dangerous, and it smelled awful, but to each their own. _“Salud,_ eh? To new ground, perhaps, and new ideas?”

Spike had his eyes on his proffered goblet of blood, the pale accentuated to something painful and the red rims around his eyes terrible to see as he clenched the glass. All protestations had fled, his nostrils flared. _“Salud,”_ he grated, and lifted the blood briefly away from his face… then tossed it back like it was going to get away if he didn’t drink it down fast.

Buffy _felt_ it hit him. Literal life. /Oh, _God_ , Spike, we need to get you fed./

It was all she could do to merely clench her fingers around her own glass and finish the toast, sip her vermouth with something approaching civility. To wrench her eyes from her lover’s throat as he swallowed in clear desperation. She barely even tasted her own drink. /Damn, damn, damn./ 

“Ah. _Que mucho gusto*_. This may be a small and independent _taberna*_ , but it must be sourced quite well. My compliments, young one,” she called back to Consuela. _“Por favor_ , tell our host, she does well.”

“I will tell Krzahk.”

“ _Excelente.”_ She turned back to Buffy and Spike. “I will send word if I have found interest in your proposal from others of my acquaintance. Until then…” And, rising, she gave a short tilt that was hinted at a pleasant bow.

Buffy rose hurriedly, surprised, Spike scrambling out behind her. They returned the gesture, remained standing while Sonia showed herself out, tall head brushing the door lintel as she stooped to exit. 

Buffy watched her go, pensive. “That could have gone worse,” she murmured as she resumed her seat. 

“Yeah. You were amazing, Buffy. As always.” 

Buffy wrenched her eyes from the door, turned to her vampire. /Oh, dammit./ His hands were clenched around the now-empty goblet, knuckles tight, and he was staring fixedly into the empty, residue-laden depths as if he could cause it to refill with the power of his will alone. Probably if he wasn’t trying to pretend he was ‘just bloody fine’, he’d be licking the damn glass. After all, he was still way too pale, way too thin, if his eyes were slightly less red-rimmed. 

And, you know, she could feel him. Feel his raging hunger, his impotent frustration… and the terror washing back and forth inside of him. The dread. All of which made this a pointless question from an informational sense, but useful from the standpoint of letting him know she was onto him. “It wasn’t enough, was it.” 

Not a question, and he didn’t take it as such. He didn’t even look up. “No.” It was a short response, clipped and unwilling.

“Alright then. Let’s go.”

He didn’t move, still clinging to his glass like it held the key to the universe.

“Spike.” It wasn’t a command, but it came close.

With a resentful glare, he released the goblet, pushed away from the table. Exited the sticky booth with slightly more force and clatter than necessary, and swung his duster over his shoulder with something that might have tried to resemble his old swagger. He failed miserably, though, and mostly just looked weighted down. /Oh, William…/

It wasn’t time for gentle right now, though. That would be for after, so she stuck with tough love for now, and marched out the door, in the clear expectation that he would follow. Which he did, of course, a reluctant pace behind and to her left. 

***

Once outside, Buffy led the way wordlessly around the corner between the bar and the old, converted steam-cleaners that now held, she thought, a bakery? Deserted at this hour, the alley was silent… and shockingly clean, as alleys went (god, this town was refreshing). She turned to her guy as soon as he entered the space behind her, pointed to the nearest stoop. “Sit.”

“Not a sodding dog, Slayer.” He was already moving to do so, of course, because claim, and she hated this as much as he did, dammit. They both knew it, so why was he making this so hard? 

“No, but you’re a mess.” She waited with crossed arms till he took a reluctant seat across from her, then closed with him, crouched before him. Caught his wrist. “Listen. This is getting to be a problem. So the way I see it, William, we can do one of two things. You can go back to prostituting yourself…” That earned her a furious glare. “No. I’m not a fan either. I mean, I’d have to kill everyone who used you, for one thing, which isn’t my idea of a good time. Not to mention it would seriously put a crimp on my conscience, since that’s all, you know, consensual and everything—at least, as far as it goes—but I’m thinking my inner demon-girl would have some pretty big issues with…”

“I don’t have a fucking chip anymore, Buffy,” he snarled. “Not handicapped. That shite is for if you’ve a broken fang, or are missing a sense, or you’re defective in some other sodding way and can’t hunt. This is…”

“You’re not hunting,” she interrupted him bluntly. 

He looked away. 

“And we’re strapped. This town has all of six thousand humans in it, and maybe, what? Four hundred demons? Which means maybe, if we’re _generous_ , eighty vamps. And yet, the hospital _and_ both mortuaries are out of surplus blood every night by ten. Supply and demand. This isn’t Sunnydale, with ten funeral homes and a zillion deaths and injuries a night, and a special arrangement with the Red Cross. We couldn’t afford the price for black market human if we tried.” The town was just not built to support too many extra demons. It wasn’t a hellmouth. “You’ve had pig again already. You’re losing muscle mass. You’re almost as lean as you were when I first got back to you in Hell-A, and the only reason you aren’t is because I’ve been here to help you out. But we both know I can’t keep you fed…”

He tensed even further, if that were possible. “Not gonna use you like a soddin’ food dish, Slayer.”

She was really going to punch him. “So, dammit… No, look at me. I know what you’re scared of. But you don’t have to be. Yet…” That did bring his eyes back to her face, stunned and aflame. “But how long before it _does_ get to be a danger, huh?”

They closed, and he folded in on himself.

“Don’t make me say the words.”

His eyes snapped open again, ablaze on her face. “Buffy, don’t do that to me.”

“I don’t want to,” she told him softly. “I never want to use it like that. But you gave it to me. And you’re _starving_.”

He was on his feet now, risen so fast she only saw a dark blur in the night as he passed right by her face to move around her. She could hear him pacing behind her, the clump of his boots—normally he walked catlike, near-silent, Doc Martins and all, so it was a measure of his agitation that he was being so damn loud—and rustling around in his pocket for another cigarette. The crinkle of plastic and stiff paper, the click of the lighter…

Moving, she sat in his vacated spot. “If you want, if you’re really so scared of yourself, I can hang around nearby.” Laying her forearms on her knees, she swiveled her upper body to watch his troubled silhouette in the dark. Pressed her cheek to the back of her arm and watched the flame briefly illuminate his carven cheekbones, then die out, leaving only the glow of the ember to shed light on his features. “I truly don’t think you’ll need me…”

“You hate everything about feelin’ it,” he hissed, “and you wanna get _closer?”_

“Not particularly. But it’s not like I don’t feel you just as easy at home as I would thirty feet away. And if feeling me will help _you_ , thinking I’m close enough to stop you…” Sitting up, she shrugged easily. “Like I said, I really don’t think I’m gonna need to. I think I’d be a mental crutch, because really your only problem right now is self-confidence. I’m pretty sure once you get through one time, you’ll be fine.” She squinted at him in the dark, pondering it. “I mean, this can’t be the first time you’ve gone from full-on vampage to low-profile and back again… and you’ve done just fine reining it in this whole time, so…”

His shoulders tensed perceptibly in the dark. He was silent for a long moment, then… “It’s real buggerin’ different this time. Lot more at stake, yeah?”

/Oh, okay, dammit./ “You better not be talking about me, or we’re gonna throw down.”

He shook his head, once, tightly. 

It gave her room to breathe. “Good; ‘cause I’m the one insisting; so if you screw up, it’s on me. What kind of a bitch would I be if I practically commanded you, and then got all pissed off at you for doing what I said?”

He sighed heavily, his exasperation clear on their link and in the blind dark. “Fucksake. I’m not talking about you, Buffy.” His eyes rose to meet hers, dark and intense. “The soddin’ soul, yeah? I do this wrong, compromise it without an excuse this time—no First, no ‘this bloke’s already technically dead, so no foul’, no ‘it was a battle, so it’s a bit of a gray area’—and I’m…”

It hit her, what he was saying… and it broke her heart. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Pushed herself to her feet, drew close. Wondered if he would flinch away from her when she reached out, but he remained still and merely watched her with glittering, illegible eyes as she moved to cup his face. He didn’t lean into the touch, and she didn’t expect him to. He could resent her for putting him here, and that was fine. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do what I did. It wasn’t fair. I’ll never ask it of you again. But we’ve got to get past it now.”

He closed his eyes again. Shuddered. And pressed his cheek into her hand. “Not your bloody fault,” he whispered back. “I wanted it. Christ, how I wanted it. Was so hard for it, Buffy. All you did was give me permission. You weren’t wrenchin’ my arm in the slightest, so I’ll not have you takin’ it on.”

/Okay, fine./ “Then we’ll just call it that we’re in this together, and we’ll get out of it together, okay?”

He tensed again… and then let out a long, trembling breath. “Bloody hell.”

“And now, before we have to spend another night with you keeping me up tromping around the house, pissed off and seriously considering eating cats…”

His eyes shot open again to meet her amused ones, and there was a tinge of amber in them now. “I’ve never once, in my entire existence, considered eating a bleedin’ cat.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed.

“Oh, you mad, evil bitch…” His amazed tones did, at least, sound lighter. Even a little admiring. 

“Sorry. It’s just… The look on your face…”

“Ought to cut you off, for that crack. That was bloody awful.”

“As if.” He was still spluttering as she dropped her hand beside his. Let her knuckles lightly brush his fingers in invitation. He could take her up on it or not. She wouldn’t be hurt if he didn’t, but…

With a groan, he slipped his hand into hers. “Hell.”

She lifted his hand to her lips, kissed his knuckles lightly. “C’mon. Let’s get you fed.”

***

He was hesitant as they crossed to the other side of town, afraid to speak for more than one reason. And when they halted across the street from one of the more popular human bars, he didn’t quite look at her; just stood there and quivered a little. A combination, she thought, of hunger, and fear, need, and uncertainty at her presence. “Go on,” she told him softly. “I’ll be over there in La Cocina Cacao.” She jerked her chin toward the little café a block down the road and catty-corner to the taproom. “If you need me. But you won’t.”

And he didn’t. She kept a light touch on him; not for ‘the chat-up’, since he was uncharacteristically nervous enough that he actually struck out once before he made contact, but for afterward, which was not normally her scene at all. She could make that sacrifice for him, just this once, even if it pissed her inner demon right off. She fought, through it all, to remain calm; to just sit and sip her mocha and wait, eyes trained somewhere in the general vicinity of the alley behind the bar, while he did it with discipline, precision… and not even a hint of hesitation at the moment of truth. So it was that when he helped the confused, wobbly woman out of the alley and into the cab and then crossed the street to join her, there at her small table-for-two, she missed none of it. 

She also didn’t miss his nervousness; the way he stood before her as if awaiting her verdict before he might sit. /Dope./ Registering his presence, she glanced up and nodded at the seat. “You look better. Not tip-top though. Probably should go out again in a day or so to catch up.”

He grunted, but tucked the duster under him and sat. And went still as only a vampire could get for a very long moment, until she finally pushed his extra foam, extra cinnamon latte at him and lifted her eyebrows expectantly. “I told you you’d be fine.”

He eyed her warily for a second. “You had to stay pretty close.”

He wasn’t talking about physical proximity. “No. But I agreed to, so I did.”

He looked down at his coffee. Punched the straw up and down a few times to knock some of the cinnamon into the liquid. Stirred it in a desultory fashion. “Half expect you to wanna sock me on the beak now, for havin’ to listen in.”

She slipped her own straw into her mouth. Pulled in a patient mouthful, swallowed. “We’re in this together, remember? You’re uncomfortable, I’m uncomfortable with you. It’s over now. Right? You feel more… on top of things?” She looked him up and down, critically. “You seem more confident.”

With a sigh he shoved the straw hard into the cup, so that coffee and foam sloshed over the edges, and leaned back into his seat. “Yeah, gloat. You were right, alright, Slayer? Fine. That what you wanted? Was bein’ a right nancy…”

He was always so hard on himself. She hated it when he was defensive like this; especially around her. It was an echo of old things; of a time when she might have taken any possible opportunity to poke and prod at him if she caught wind of a moment’s weakness. It hurt these days when he reacted in the same way to things she no longer did, out of leftover reflex; but that was all it was. A reflex, and better if she didn’t respond poorly. All that did was end in a bigger, and unnecessary, fight.

Easier, and much quicker, to disarm him with the truth; and that was love. “I want you to be okay,” she countered softly. “And I don’t think you were being anything but real. If you don’t know, you don’t know.” 

Her quiet understanding seemed to floor him. He subsided instantly, hands on the table. “Buffy, how did we get here?”

She blinked at that, confused. “Get… where?” Looked around her, wondering if they’d hit some kind of dimensional rift she’d missed or something. Was he seeing something she wasn’t, or…

“You’re so bloody calm with these things, sometimes it almost frightens me. And I can trust you now with my everything. It’d be terrifyin’ if it wasn’t so soddin’ wonderful that it damn near turns me inside out with the joy of it.” He was avoiding her eyes, looking at the table; gripping it with both hands. And his voice… was shaking. “What we have is everythin’ I’ve ever wanted in my entire, long existence, so much that I can’t feature it sometimes. That it’s real.”

/Oh God…/ She knew those feels.

“I feel like everythin’ must be about to crash down at any moment, because even with all the pain we’ve gone through, even with all the things we’ve done to each other and all the hurt we’ve lived through in both our lives, how the bloody hell can we have earned this?”

A thrill of fear shot through her at this last. Her hand crossed the table of its own accord to grip his fingers, hard. Cinched down. “Don’t,” she heard herself say, feeling distant for a brief instant, from everything that was currently happening. “Don’t question it.”

He stared at her, shaken by her flat tone. “I was only…”

“I know. And I feel the same way. God knows I do. But please. Don’t tempt fate, okay?” She caught his eyes, the brief premonition gone like it had never been. “Just… let us be happy. Please?”

His hand turned over. Caught hers. And held on tight. “Yeah. I can do that.”

* * *

  
  
  
  
  


(Spike should really know better, after years on a hellmouth, than to speak in any famous last words.  
Dope.)  
  
_Como estan ustedes_ _esta buena noche_ , _Asesina-no-mas_ _y_ _vampiro-amante? =_ How are you, (respectfully) this evening, killer-no-more, and vampire-lover?

 _lider respetado =_ respected leader

 _Los Estados Unidos =_ The United States

 _El es su socio romántico, si? Sigue siendo su amante? =_ He is your romantic partner, yes? He remains your lover?

 _Señorita, por favor atiéndanos, deseamos que nos traigas una ronda de bebidas! =_ Young woman, please attend to us, we wish you would bring us a round of drinks!

 _Una copa de sangre por el caballero, si? =_ A cup of blood for the gentleman, yes?

 _Viene rapidamente =_ it is coming quickly

 _Que mucho gusto =_ what a pleasure

 _taberna =_ bar, pub


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this one's been a LOOOOONG time coming. It riffs off of a really fantastic LJ essay called 'Captain Cardboard, or How I Learned To Stop Seething And Love "As You Were"' (https://theohara.livejournal.com/162286.html), which, if you haven't read it, please do. I had to add in a few points after a member of EF found out the "Of Human Bondage" connection (can't find the link to the Tumblr post on it, but that's the book Spike's holding in AYW, same cover as the one Buffy found in The Freshmen!), which of course completely threw a monkey wrench in things and forced me to rewrite the scene a little. But I still think it works just fine and I absolutely, 100% buy the LJ version of that episode, because all the little hints about Machiavelli from the first scene and all that just all point to Riley being a self-serving dick. Which, we already knew he was, and all I can say is, if the writers wanted to be clever and put a bunch of stuff in code, don't make it so subtle that most people miss it and take everything at face value, and if we are getting it wrong, and it's not what you wanted us to think, don't let everyone spend YEARS believing Spike's The Worst (tm), when he's not, and letting him be unfairly maligned, when you didn't actually originally write it that way, dammit! Let us know what you really MEANT, instead of patting yourselves on the back over your own cleverness, and giggling behind your hands over having slipped one by everyone!!! Asshats. 
> 
> Not that I'm mad. Obviously. (*she lies, as she goes to her grave defending Spike's innocence and*... Well, virtue's a strong word, but you know what I mean.)
> 
> Anyhoo. /rant

_  
“The best day of your life if the one on which you decide your life is your own. No apologies or excuses. No one to rely on or blame. The gift is yours, it’s an amazing journey and you alone are responsible for the quality of it.”_

* * *

She wasn’t going to enjoy facing off with Giles about their plan. But then, he’d never said anything one way or the other about the new ‘curriculum’, either, so maybe it would be alright? 

Granted, she didn’t know if he’d ever started teaching it or just thrown it on the nearest fireplace to warm the house on some chilly Russian winter evening, so there was that. 

Maybe he’d respond well?

/Maybe he’ll just never talk to me again./

“Gonna have to tell him at some point, pet.”

“Yeah.” She pummeled the bag—their third—yet again; followed with a lightning-fast elbow-strike. “I know. It’s just… We’re finally back on an even keel. It sucks. I don’t wanna rock the boat, you know?”

Spike caught and steadied the bag, pushed it back at her hard so that it knocked her a little off balance, then dodged around it to try a swift roundhouse to her head. She blocked it easily—he’d telegraphed the move since he was a bit distracted—and went for a low sweep of his legs. He dodged her with a grunt, keeping the bag—her ‘second opponent’—between them. “Word’s bound to get back to him sooner or later. We’re makin’ waves at this point. And he’s the sort of bloke as is like to have his ear to the ground.” With a frown, he danced around behind her, trying for a couple of judo moves that were half throws and half sex; or would be, if he could get an arm around her waist and her to the floor. She disabused him swiftly with a back-spin-kick that caught him in the midriff, and he grunted, jolting backward to circle around behind the bag once more. He was going to have to work harder for it than that. 

“He’s not like that blighter Wood,” her guy went on, for all the world as if he didn’t have bruised ribs, “or the young chits runnin’ things in the other cells; nor yet Andrew. They’ll fall in line or not based on what HQ does…” Darting around the other side of the bag, he tried a quick, right-hand jab for her kidneys, but she twisted away and got him on the ear before he could disengage. He had to roll away across the little pieces of carpet they used as gym mats, fetched up against the post, about two inches shy of sprawling out into the sun, the dope. “Hell. And what Rupert does…” 

“Stay out of the sun.” She leaned back, delivered a solid, frustrated kick at the bag that sent it spinning on its chains, then frowned at it as if it had personally offended her. “I know.” She had to start with Señor Senior Watcher-guy, dammit.

Heck; it had been hard enough to sell the new curriculum to the other cells piecemeal. Rona had actually taken to it the best of the bunch, which was interesting; but then, that girl had had the most fire and straightforward practicality of the whole bunch, without the calculating political maneuvering Kennedy had employed. She was a fighter. Vi, on the other hand, had seemed… skittish, but that was kind of her MO. She'd grown a lot since her Potential days, but she tended to devolve back to quiet and uncertain when faced with something wildly untoward. She had developed a new, quiet strength that stood her in good stead as a leader, however, since then, and had swallowed the changes to the training schedule without complaint like she did basically everything.   
  
Andrew… Well, it went without saying that Andrew tended to accept her word on things vampire without demur, since he considered her the resident expert. Not to mention that he had a massive, longstanding crush on Spike, and kind of wished he had been the one to gather the evidence personally. 

When it came to the rest of the demonology in the packet, though, he’d been a little less sanguine. _‘You know… I mean, I agree about some of it. Like, with the… the Chiraago greeting ritual, and… like, the Feravas… Even some of the mage-clans, you know? They’re all pretty… You can reason with ‘em. But when it comes to… I mean, I’ve tried to talk things out once with a Sinistra, and that was just a really bad idea. I ended up with this three-inch-long…’_

_“Andrew, no one’s asking anyone to risk their lives. I’m just saying, kill-on-sight isn’t the order of the day anymore, is all, and that we need to question the info we got from the Watcher’s Council instead of swallowing it all automatically as verbatim, gospel truth. We need to put our heads together; pool our insights, do our own research. Use the ins we have with the demon community as it_ now _exists, in the twenty-first century, to find out how things stand. See if any of it is inaccurate; or even just if it’s changed since they wrote it, you know? Because if we’re causing some demons to act out violently because we’re_ initiating _the hostilities, then that needs to stop. It’s counterproductive.”  
  
‘Oh. I mean… yeah. That makes total sense. I get that.’_

_“Okay, then. Which means, if you have anything to add, please do. And copy me. And the girls; and Giles and Robin and Xander and Willow. We need to make this thing as across-the-board as we can, or it all falls apart.”_ She’d tried her best to sound heartening, even approving over the phone. _“You have a wealth of knowledge to add to the mix, Andrew. We’re counting on you.”_

The flustered tones had, of course, immediately melted into pleased ones. _‘Oh. Well, okay. I mean, yeah; I’ll think of everything I can and add it in, pronto. You got it, Slayer of the Vampyres! Or, uh, I mean, not so much anymore! Uh…’_

_“Part-time,”_ she’d cut him off dryly. _“It’s fine, Andrew. Just keep me posted.”_

_‘Definitely. This is Watcher Andrew, signing off from_ Italia. Ciao!’

Robin, on the other hand, had had serious issues with the changes to the curriculum. Pretty specific ones, as it turned out. _‘Let me guess. You got all this from Spike.’_ And even with the long-distance, overseas connection, his voice had crackled with flat disgust.

/Okay; here we go./ _“Heard he’s back, I guess.”_

_‘Yeah. Did hear that. Through the grapevine.’_

It had been all she could do not to roll her eyes at the phone. _“Well, it’s true. But no. I didn’t get this all from him. This is a compilation of information I picked up from a number of sources, all of them pretty tough to argue with, since they know a lot more about the demon world than a bunch of old guys in tweed suits who did all their research from a library built by more guys in tweed suits…”_

_‘Oh. Rubbing shoulders with a lot of demons these days, are you Buffy?’_

/Oh, for God’s sake./ _“Actually, yes. Someone’s got to if we’re gonna get actual accurate information. As a matter of fact, most of what we thought we knew was pretty much outdated crap, though some of it is still useful. I thought, since I have an in, I’d use it for a change instead of just killing all my informants on sight…”_

Robin had cut her off, clearly floored by her abrupt one-eighty on demon-Slayer relations. _‘And you think demons are going to give you accurate information on whether or not to kill ‘em? Be real, Buffy! You actually want me to_ teach _them this…’_

She could see why he would go there with it, but… That wasn’t the kind of 411 she’d been gathering, and if he could just see that…

But he couldn’t, and she was kind of done, really, with all of it by now. The prejudice, the judgment, the big freaking concern with the origination of the info… and definitely with whether she was ‘biased’ because sex. _“Look, Robin. It’s information. I didn’t go in there asking them to tell me whether or not they wanted to die. I gathered information based on my own knowledge and instincts. You can trust it or not, use it or not.”_ /You can trust _me_ , or not./ 

That was what it came down to, in the end. Did he still trust _her. “I can’t force you. But I can tell you that everything in there is the actual truth, for a change, and not just a bunch of propaganda someone wrote to use us; like they used your_ _mother. Like they used you, and me.”_

That got him when nothing else had. _‘Bernard would_ never _have used my mother! And…’_

Time to walk softly. That guy had raised him in a way even Giles hadn’t, with her. _“Maybe not knowingly. But the_ Council _used every Slayer. Everything they taught us was built on the concept that we are weapons; tools, not people. That if they didn’t keep us in the dark, lie to us every day, we’d turn on them. Which is why some of us did anyway.”_ Time to grind it home _. “Some of us like Faith.” /_ And maybe you have no idea what that did to her… or maybe you have some clue./ _“Same reason most died before they ever got to be old enough to have a life at all.”_ /For better or for worse./

_“Which is also why if your mom had had any other Watcher—one who didn’t love her like a daughter—you’d never have been born. She wouldn’t have had a life of her own, any more than any other Slayer has ever had before me. And that’s verbatim from the Watcher Handbook. Check it—check the one you inherited from Bernard Crowley—and tell me I’m wrong. Because any other Slayer in history who ever managed to get pregnant—and it’s amazing, and kind of telling, how few ever did—she mysteriously died in the line of duty really, really fast after that. Easy to blame it on being discombobulated by the hormones, right?”_ The bitterness sat like gall on her tongue _. “Because a Slayer with a child, or a love interest; any of that? One no longer entirely theirs, was a liability; a weapon they couldn’t control.”_

Silence _._

_“So if you want to keep lying to your girls, go ahead. They can live in ignorance just like your mother did, and Faith did, and_ I _did, and they can be used from beyond the grave by a bunch of old men who didn’t give a damn whether we died… and who_ definitely _never wanted us to really live.”_ She’d paused pointedly. _“Or… you can be the kind of guy who trusts the women in his life to make their own decisions about who and what they really are.”_ And she’d cut off the call, left him to stew with it.

She had actually been surprised to find out from Faith, almost by accident a few weeks later, that he’d actually been teaching some of the new stuff. _‘You know, B; whatever the hell you said to Wood really pissed him off; but he’s also changin’ some stuff up over here. What’s up with the new handbook for the recently Called?’_

_“Oh. He mention that to you?”_

_‘Not so much. Dropped in for a quick visit. Was feelin’ itchy for a roll in the hay for old times’ sake, you know? Boy’s got stamina.’_

Buffy had rolled her eyes. Faith was incorrigible.

_‘Saw the girls in there reading some new 411. Bunch of stuff about benefit of the doubt, and not assuming every big D is up to no good just because they look funny. Which, granted, I get, but it isn’t exactly the party-line we were taught, so what gives?’_

_“I’ve, um, had a few revelations lately. I sent out a new instructional packet in case it eases our Slayer-demon relations. I’m hoping the hesitations and the aggro will balance out in the end and less girls will wind up cold.”_

There had been a short pause at the other end of the line, then, _‘Wild theory, B. You, uh, gettin’ this from Mr. Hot, Blond, and Wiry? Heard he’s back in action.’_

/‘Hot, Blond, and Wiry’? _Really?_ / It was difficult not to bristle, but she had managed to keep her tones even. _“We came up with it together after a few… instructional encounters in a demon-dimension.”_ /Why am I always so reserved with Faith? Is it just something about her that puts my back up? I mean… God! She doesn’t needle me any more than Spike ever did, but I always let her get me riled./ _“I’m kind of surprised Robin’s teaching it, though. He didn’t sound too interested when I sent it over. He actually called me when he got it to kind of chew me out about it.”_

_‘Yeah, well. He may not sound like it, B, but the guy trusts you.’_ A short silence on the line, then… _‘Demon dimension?’_

_“Long story.”_

_‘I bet.’_ Buffy had almost been sure the conversation was over, then, unexpectedly, _‘So, uh… how are you holdin’ up? Things good with you and the squeeze?’_

The question had sent her into a tailspin, torn between a dozen words and images. Faith, lounging on the cot down in the basement in Revello, sharing a companionable cigarette and a clearly flirtatious energy with her guy which had sent Buffy, despite their unspoken hands-off policy, into a completely possessive, coldly jealous rage that Spike had been able to read from a mile off, to his combination guilty uncertainty and clear—and very damned smug—amusement. The bastard. Then, Spike, in the old Mercury in Hell-A, and up on the battlements of the castle in Scotland; in a half-dozen places and times, repeatedly insisting that Faith…

/Is it concern for me? Actual, real concern, because she cares? Curiosity about the vamp thing? Just an attempt to mend fences and connect, because that’s what we’ve been trying to do ever since she came back to the hellmouth to help out?/ 

That tentative rebuilding of burnt bridges was a slow give and take between herself and her sister-Slayer, and a bumpy road, but… No sense walking backward just because sometimes the ground got rocky, or there were sharp, unseen stones beneath the feet, and stumbling could hurt everyone. 

Buffy had closed her eyes, swallowing before she’d replied. _“Oh, you know. Really good. Which is…”_ /Dammit, you _owe_ this to her, Buffy, so speak the hell up!/ _“I mean… I’m not sure I could’ve walked away at all if I…”_ /Give credit where it’s due./ _“If you weren’t around to be a shining example of how to be real about some stuff I never knew how to admit to myself a few years back, so… Thank you, Faith. For, uh, being real with me for a long time, whether I wanted to hear it or not.”_

Another long silence over the line, then, _‘Damn, B. Way to step up. Never thought I’d hear you be so straight up with me.’_ And Faith’s voice had sounded awed… and warmer than it had ever done. Almost… unguarded.

Buffy had cleared her throat, because maybe that would go a long damn way between them. And it had really cost her very little, in the long run. 

It was, after all, the plain, unvarnished truth. _“Well, you know. I had to face… a lot of stuff about myself to get where I am. It’s been worth it. But I had to leave a lot of illusions behind in the process. Stuff I guess you never had; so you were probably always ahead of the game, there.”_ Probably too late to apologize for that. For not seeing it. /I was just a kid. Can’t apologize for being a stupid kid./ 

Admitting it would have to be apology enough.

Apparently it was; or at least it was a start. _‘Well, hell, B.’_ Another short pause, then, _‘Hey. Maybe next time you two are on this side, or, you know, if I ever get to come over there for something, maybe we should hit a bar together. Shoot the shit, huh?’_

The gap had closed so much, very suddenly, that Buffy almost gasped. And something inside her heart that had been cracked and wounded since she was seventeen closed. Something stabbed, broken, bleeding, cinched shut and scabbing over. The chance, finally, to actually begin the healing process. _“I’d… really like that, Faith.”_ It came out warmly. And it was real.

Based on all their disparate reactions, it was relatively clear who would take to the plan and how, who would need further convincing… and who would opt out completely. 

Giles was the wildcard, and the damn kingpin. And Buffy really just wasn’t sure if she was ready to face down the father figure she had only gotten back in the last week and a half and tear everything apart again. 

But time was running out. This ‘Twilight’ group wasn’t going to get any less dangerous, for one thing. “I guess I should…”

A loud _shoop_ - _pop_ sounded from their recently-repaired bedroom, making Buffy jump, and all the hairs rose on her neck. 

“Portal,” Spike muttered unnecessarily, from his spot still sprawled inelegantly against the post. He rose, dusted his ass off, and frowned. “Red payin’ us a visit, you think? Or should we go in armed?” An amused light was in his eyes. 

/Anything’s possible in our world./ Lowering her hands, Buffy turned with him to reenter their home. “You think she finally got ahold of the Finns?”

A low growl answered her. 

With a sigh, Buffy led the way toward their room. “I know you’re not a fan, but they _are_ our contacts inside that world.”

“Need to cultivate some new bloody contacts.”

Buffy slipped a hand into his cool, dry palm. “If he even looks at you cross-eyed I’ll shut him down hardcore. You have my word.”

He didn’t trust himself to speak—probably a good thing considering the emotions roiling around inside him to ricochet through the link—but he did squeeze her hand once in acknowledgement.

When they got to their bedroom, they found an open portal, big enough for two. No Willow, though. Just a nice, wide view into a very Willow-looking boudoir in the castle, complete with myriad spell- and chemistry books, an open wardrobe in which hung a number of embroidered dresses and skirts in earthy and reddish tones… and a narrow, lead-paned window looking out into a very cold-looking stretch of wintery Scottish landscape. 

“Uh, knock-knock?”

“Come on over. I’ve got the secure connection up. Just made contact with the Agents Finn, finally.”

“Took them long enough.” /I’m not bitter. I’m not. I’m disappointed, but I’m _not_ bitter./

“Yeah,” Willow answered from the other side of the portal. “It’s weird; usually it doesn’t take them this long to answer.”

Buffy let out a little huff that wasn’t quite a sigh. She wasn’t precisely _surprised_ that it had taken almost twelve days for Riley and Sam to answer Willow this time around, but she _was_ let down. She honestly had no clue how much quiet maneuvering it took Riley to wangle around his contract with the US Government in order to maintain some sort of loyalty to their past association and to what he had learned in Sunnydale, while still avoiding nasty things like court martials and sundry other icky political realities of military life. She did know for a fact, though, that the delay meant that something was definitely up; and that, moreover, the Finns were having to do some serious cloak-and-dagger hoop-jumping to get them intel. She just hoped that it meant they had stumbled onto said ‘something big’ only when they’d been asked, and that they hadn’t already been aware. Because if it was the latter…

/I’d rather not believe that Riley would let something like this threaten me and my people without telling me, if he knew about it. I really would rather think it’s for a good reason—like, they were incommunicado in a swamp somewhere—and not ‘cause he and Sam also believe that we’re a threat to humanity or ‘security’, or whatever./ But then, she wouldn’t have thought, in the past, that her ex would’ve added to a ‘dossier’ on her that had included information about her, ah… yen for vampires as bedfellows. It seemed, however, that sour grapes had contributed to a certain loosening of lips in that department, which meant that all bets were off, really. 

/If he actually thinks that the Slayer Organization is dangerous now, just like they do, because he’s mad I’m back with Spike…/ 

Tough to feature such a one-eighty from someone as straightforward as Agent Finn, Iowa farmboy and never the most devious of creatures. After all, he had been willing to give her the support she’d needed to get Spike de-chipped, with instructions that the unlife and fate of the former ‘Hostile 17’ was in her hands. That vote of confidence had told her he’d trusted her with her vampires, and her decisions therewith. Surely that extended to her Slayers, as well, and how she trained them?

But there was another worry; a way in which those Twilight bastards could have gotten to her ex, if they really wanted to, and time Buffy admitted it to herself. Riley did have something of a blind spot; and not just about vamps and demons. In hindsight, he’d had one with Slayers, too. It had been, in the end, what had destroyed them as a functional couple. It was now personal with the former, if it hadn’t started out that way, but… it had always been very personal with the latter. Because… alright. She had to get over her issues about it and get be real. Riley had always, deep inside, feared her strength, her power; feared that, if she could beat him and all his highly-trained military boys and their toys with her bare hands, even tanked up on god alone knew what chemical stew and fully-armed with state-of-the-art equipment… Heck; more importantly, if she could take down a locked-down, secret facility with the full might of the US Government arrayed against her—the Government he had sworn to serve with his life’s blood—using only her strength and a few untrained friends, and armed with magickal forces beyond his ken…

Riley was in her world insofar as he’d dipped his toes in it. He fought it; but he fought on one side of a line to keep that world from bleeding over into his nice, safe Iowa farmtown universe. To keep it from touching his nice, safe picket fences and summer potlucks and Fourth of July barbecues and… all the things he stood for that she had once thought she’d wanted but now knew she could never have and no longer even wanted to try for. He stood proudly on that line so that others didn’t have to; would die on it, see and know things others didn’t so that they never had to. 

But he wasn’t happy about it. And she got that. She had been there, in the beginning. Thought it was but a duty, a job she could do till it was done, and once the demons were gone, she could go back to her life. Have a nice house, great clothes, and two-point-five-kids; a beautiful husband with a bright, white smile and good arms and Christian Slater hair, who had a membership to a health club and maybe had a really sweet car. Preferably one with leather seats. /But you can’t massacre a whole world because it inconveniences you. You can either ignore it, or stop being pissed off that its existence means you’re choosing to sacrifice the things you wanted, to be uncomfortable in the jungle hunting Polgaras—or slaying every night—and realize it’s your choice. You can’t whine about how the other world’s existence makes your life suck and you want it to just go away./ 

Buffy had found another way. Another road. That road was to create herself an army to hold back the tides, so she didn’t have to kill herself slowly standing before the tsunami alone… and then she had, finally, accepted who and what she was in that world, and stepped across that line to bridge the gap between air and water. If Riley didn’t like her solution…

That was the rub, really. The fact that she didn’t see it the way he did, and never had. That by the time he’d come along she hadn’t been able to look at the demon world as something to be destroyed so she could go back to ‘normal life’; because by then she had already mostly given up on that as a thing she was ever allowed to have. Beaches and picnics and unadulterated sunlight. All of that had become alien to her. She had accepted the twilit haze of dusk and the liminal, the uncertainty, made peace with her likely death and the gray areas of her short life… and the beginnings of the long road she had taken to get here now, where so many handshake agreements had had to be made between herself and the world on the other side of that line. 

She had accepted that she didn’t hold a line so much as move around on it; an amphibian in a world of mammals and fish. And Riley had taken it so _personally_ , that she hadn’t been willing to stand on only one side of that line with him—no to killing Spike even when he was harmless, because he was ‘a hostile’, no ooyahing with his boys as they indiscriminately netted murderous and inoffensive demons alike and shoved them into bare cells without food, water, toilet facilities—and, okay, she was still kind of bothered that it had taken him till _Adam_ to shake the programming entirely. That Oz’s capture had only rattled him a little, and that only because Oz was a part-time human. 

The worst one, though, the most painful betrayal, was that he hadn’t broken free, completely and totally, right away when Walsh had come after _her_ , his _girlfriend_. Because, yes, she got that he had had a career, that they could ruin his life… and that in the end he had in fact given all that up for the right thing. Over Adam, and over what they’d done to him and his guys. But with her, and the assassination attempt… it begged the question; did it mean that deep inside, even then, he had been _afraid_ of her? Of what she was, of where her power came from?

Had he always wondered whether she really did belong over that line, with the creatures he fought in black and white? 

/I mean, he wouldn’t have been wrong, but the problem from the start was the underlying premise. That there’s a line, really, when it should just be about individuals and what we _do_./ Not that she had been able to articulate any of that back then. She had still been stuck in her own issues about all that, hadn’t been fully capable of breaking free from her own dogmas back then to see all the things that had been wrong with the Initiative and what they did. Though… in retrospect even she had drawn the line at experimentation and live vivisections; at least on the ones she knew weren’t all that offensive. /I mean, even the frogs we did that with in school were dead!/ Though she supposed it made sense to guys who had grown up hooking and gutting living fish, and excused it because they had ‘no feelings’. ‘Netting’ a demon was just another, larger version of same, and they had been desensitized, probably, since long before they had been recruited to think demons weren’t sentient.

/Seriously, though; a good, clean, sporting kill, with everyone armed and able to fight back, that’s one thing. The torturing in the name of ‘science’ deal was just…/ Whenever she got down on herself for not giving demons the benefit of the doubt, and on not seeing how wrong the whole thing was down in that maze, she could at least remind herself that she had never done what they had done. It was on a scale of might-makes-right, sure, and part of the main reason why, with a whole army of Slayers now, she had to make sure they didn’t go down that road. But… /But all that “they’re animals” stuff was just... Heck; if you treated actual animals that badly, you’d get arrested. But I never asked myself, if they weren’t ‘animals’, did that make them people?/

No, she hadn’t been all the way there herself, to argue the points with her then-boyfriend… but the cracks had been there, from then on. He hadn’t belonged in her world; not before the meds, and certainly not after, and she had had to recognize that, whether she’d wanted a ‘normal boyfriend’ and a ‘normal life’, even the closest thing she could get to it was not going to slot in. And if Riley, who was barely normal by most people’s standards and yet was still, by hers, barely qualified to dip his toes into her world, couldn’t hang, had been so overwhelmed by what he was seeing that his response was to this world was think it was okay to… To…

/No wonder we didn’t work out. And no wonder it hurt him when he realized that I…/ Riley had kept trying to drag her back over the line to his ‘normal’ world. And she hadn’t been able to go. Whatever she might have told herself then, it wasn’t where she lived. And he had been so _angry_ with her, that she wouldn’t cosign his beliefs; that everything about her world was all wrong, and that she only belonged with Riley on his side of the line. He had never liked her messy, gray areas, even then; was built for easy, black-and-white, shoot-to-kill answers. Which she got, since it was also how she’d been raised by the Watchers. /God, if he had a hard time with my gray zones then, he’ll flip over now!/ Because if she’d been drifting from Council dogma then—a dogma that had damn near dovetailed with Initiative assumptions—then at this point she was basically the queen of full-on heresy. 

/The problem for him is, if I can’t stand on that line with him…/ God, this was going to be a tough interview. If the Finns weren’t already working for Twilight; something they’d find out right quick by any tells. She knew him that well, could read a guy she’d dated for a year to see that much in him. If he was, though, at least she’d know why. Because he’d always feared what she was. She had shown him, continued to show him, that she was a _part_ of that world, for better or worse. Inextricable from it. And in the end that had been a betrayal of everything he stood for. That not only was she part of the other side, but that she had ‘fooled’ him somehow. 

He had dated her. He had wanted her. He had loved her. /God, probably he thought I showed my true colors the minute he left, when I fell into bed with Spike./ Though, granted, that was in a way sort of true, but still. There had been so much more to it than that, and… /It’s not like you being there was like, my last bastion of human-sexual sanity or something. We were already broken./ 

Clearly Riley had already been trying to figure it out, with the vamps and the biting; _why_ he had been ‘fooled’. What had eventually, he thought, ‘seduced’ _her_ over a line he had thought she had maintained with him, while standing on the same side. Because of course she must have been seduced. No way he could have been wrong about her. No way he could ever have wanted her, there in the sun in her bright skin and hair and smile, if she was really always… what he feared she had always been.

Just another monster.

/Sorry, Riley. I guess in some ways… we’re all our own kind of monster, huh?/ 

The problem with today was… she was more than likely going to have to confirm the truth to him. That it wasn’t the vampires who had tainted her, drawn her over. That this was what she truly was; her and all her Slayers. Because in his mind that might mean that it was all a ruse from the start, and what he had told himself she was, even when they had been together, was only a myth. That she had never been a creature of daylight. He would take that to mean that she was a lie; a thing he must fight, if she was truly meant to dwell in the dark, with the monsters; because she had taken him in, tainted _him_ from the start. 

That maybe these Twilight bastards were right to fight the Slayers, bring them down.

/I never meant to do that to you, Riley, is the thing. I never meant to lie. I didn’t know myself. I thought I could be what you needed. I _wanted_ to be. But…/ 

It should have been long over now. But because of these stupid military bastards who just wouldn’t let it go, it was going to be a thing again; and with Riley’s inside knowledge, an extremely dangerous one. She could only hope that she could convince him of her side. That part of the darkness or not, the Slayers would always stand as bastion between the two worlds, and that she wasn’t precisely the poster-child for her Organization. /Hence my departure./ 

/I’ll guess I’ll just have to pray that what happened between me and good ol’ Agent Finn didn’t cause, won’t ever cause him to turn spy for these bastards./ Though… best to be mentally prepared, just in case. After all, considering her track record, at this point it was wasn’t that tough to believe much from _any_ of her past boyfriends. /Sad, but true. I guess I tended to pick guys with weird issues, so they could be matchy with me… and then I trusted them with all I had, because I was so damn needy./

She found Spike’s hand as she squared her shoulders for yet another likely confrontation. /At least this one only had the one… and that was loving me. I should’ve realized it was a good sign that I didn’t trust him; at least, not officially. That instinct was right on the money. Because I actually did; but on the ‘didn’t want to trust him’ level. Which, you know… Lessons learned. Trust the ones your screwed-up Slayer instincts trust, not the ones your stupid, needy human-girl brain thinks foot the bill for your daddy-issues./ “You coming?” Gave the hand a supportive squeeze. Permission to stand down if needed. “You don’t have to.”

Spike made a truculent sort of noise, but didn’t disengage. “Anything that tosser says, I wanna be there to hear it.”

Buffy honestly couldn’t blame her guy for that one. And it probably came on two levels, considering Spike had to have some of the same damn suspicions she did at this point. “Okay, let’s go.”

They stepped through into Wil’s room, the sudden alteration in temperatures making it clear that they had left the temperate Mediterranean climes far behind for the damp, near-polar chill of Scottish winter. 

Wil had a witchy little fire burning in the grate—the ozone-y smell of that heat-source assailed the nose first-off—but it did little to alter the overall room temperature, which was probably in the low fifties, if that. Colder by the window and the door, warmer near the open-faced fireplace itself, of course, and reflecting off the foot of her bed across from it. Buffy promptly marched over to said warm-zone and huddled up, shivering. February or no, Andalucia was about fifty-nine, sixty degrees right now, outside… and warmer inside, of course. Not to mention _dry_. “Jeez, Wil; how do you handle this _weather?”_

Will just shrugged. “You didn’t feel Nepal last winter.”

“Oh. Um.”

“Bloody cold in the Himalayas,” Spike agreed blandly, but his eyes were locked on the open laptop even as he joined Buffy before the fire, duster open to make a pocket to catch the heat for her in a nice, warm, Spike-shaped bubble. 

“Nnn,” she murmured in sincere appreciation, and leaned back against his skin. He was cooling down fast in response to current room temperatures, but he was still a hair warmer than the ambient air, and definitely not all with the damp. And the duster was already catching significant warmth to wrap around her, which was just… nice. “I _love_ you.”

“You’re so bloody easy, Slayer.”

“For you, yeah.”

“We’re up,” Willow interrupted, and her voice actually _sounded_ like eye-rolling. 

“Ugh. I’m gonna have to turn around, huh?”

“If you don’t wanna talk to Soldier-boy over your shoulder. Not that I mind if you address him while giving him a nice view of my arse the entire time…”

“Huh. Somehow I don’t think you want him sneaking up behind you even on video.”

“Yeah, well. There’s that.” His voice was tight again, grumbly. Not that she blamed him, considering. 

Turning against his body so that the fireplace could warm her chilly butt, Buffy rubbed a hand lightly over the scar that marred his left pec, just over his heart. “I might bring this up. You know. In passing.”

Blue eyes sparkled down at her in returned appreciation. “Don’t bugger up the deal, pet, if you don’t have to.”

“Mmm.” She leaned in for a sec, forehead to his throat. Breathed him in—the smell of home—to fortify herself for the coming debate. Huffed out said breath, powered up. “Alright.”

“You can do this, Slayer.”

“I know.” Lifting her head, she faced her guy with a small, confident smile, and squeezed his scarred chest lightly before releasing him to move around his body toward the small desk beyond. She’d have to acclimate to the stupid, cold-ass temperatures. /Thank God I don’t live here anymore, though. Just, ugh./ 

Wil stood over by the far side of her bed, hunched over the computer set up probably as distant as she could get it from the heat of the fireplace for the sake of the circuitry. Again, for the third time, ugh, though probably there were spells for chilly fingers or something. On the opposite side of the bed, Buffy noticed as she approached, was something that looked like… an altar? She remembered how that sort of thing went from living with Wil back in her early Wicca-exploration days in college, though back then it had been a less complex affair. Up in her mother’s old room at Revello, when Willow and Tara had shared an altar, it had become something far more complex; nearly every flat surface in the place given over to some magickal artifact or another, incense everywhere, little plaques and sculptures, herbs tacked to the walls and hung up to dry near and far from the windows, depending on conditions, and…

There was just one space here. One small table, carefully organized, with herbs dangling above it from some sort of suspended drying rack. The desiccated leaves and petals hovered three feet above a burgundy-velvet-covered surface that bore what looked like two knives—one curved like a sickle or something, with a white handle, one a straight, very sharp dagger with a black handle that Buffy thought would make an excellent small poniard or sock-knife—a couple of statuettes flanking each other on either side, near the wall, one feminine and earthy-looking, one masculine and covered in what looked like leaves or something; some stones, some candles, what looked like… a scrap of cast snakeskin and a butterfly wing? There was also a cup—or, really, more of a goblet—on one side, a big bowl with handles on the other, and in the center, a candle-snuffer, a bell, and little plaque with that one star on it that Wiccans liked so much. The one with the circle. 

And, spread out across the front of everything, as if in a place of honor, there was a long strip of mint-green velvet cloth with familiar embroidery on the edges. Buffy couldn’t quite place it at first, but…

Oh. Tara. Tara had worn a dress like that. Oh, man.

Dragging her eyes away, feeling like a voyeur, Buffy turned her gaze back to the computer. Wil had her eyes fixed on the screen. “They signaled ten minutes ago that they were going to beep in, so we should see them any… Oh. Here we go.”

On the computer, inside a gray box with a bunch of clickable buttons that said things like ‘connect’ and ‘speaker’, Riley’s face hove into view, amidst a great deal of static. Over his shoulder Buffy could just barely make out the top of Sam’s head and one eye, and maybe something that looked like branches in the dark. ‘Hey, Willow! What’s up? Saw that you tried to catch us a while ago; sorry about that. We’ve been deep…’

Riley had a new scar on his face; running vertically from left temple to jaw, and his beret was covered in mud, and something that was probably gore. And now that she really looked closely, Sam’s hair looked kind of grossly anointed as well. Both their faces were smudged and weary-looking, too, and… well. Maybe they had been busy at that. 

Buffy felt kind of bad for misjudging the ex. Though, no way to know for sure, till…

Time for the talk, so she stepped out from behind Willow. Let herself be seen.

Riley’s reaction was immediate. ‘Buffy! Hey. Uh… What’s…’

“Hey, Agent Finn. Sam.” Best to start things out on a clear footing. She was willing to be open-handed, reserve judgment, but they should know off the bat that this wasn’t a social call. She was here on business. “You two need to know; Wil was recently kidnapped by… consultants who work for the Government. Spike and I had to mount a rescue operation. We found her underground in a facility built in the tunnels underneath what’s left of Sunnydale…”

Riley’s face tightened up perceptibly, and he inhaled sharply, but he didn’t respond. 

“Yeah. I know. Sounds familiar, right? Anyway, they were torturing her to get to me. We got her out, but in the meantime we found out a few things. Like, the group using this recycling company as a front—Drextalcorp, it’s called—are military, though no one will attest to that, and that their stated goal is to take out all my Slayers, because we’re apparently a threat to humankind or something.”

Riley let out his held breath, and the wince on his face was clear despite the shitty connection. ‘Well… I hate to say it, Buffy, but I’m really not surprised; and honestly, can you say you are? I mean, some of the stuff you and your girls’ve been doing isn’t exactly…’ He halted then, tensing. ‘Let me step back and say, “rumored to have been doing”, since I’m not going to parrot the party line until…’

“Oh, we did some of it,” Buffy admitted, crossing her arms. “Though most of our funding comes from private donors…”

Riley’s face closed up. _‘What_ donors, Buffy? What favors are they gonna call in from you in exchange? See, this is the kind of thing they’re scared of, don’t you get it? Do you think of this stuff? Like, are these warlords, is that money dirty, will they want you to bring a bunch of your super-powered superwomen down to some shithole country to kill someone for them because they funded your little cells all over the damn place…’

He _was_ afraid of her. Of them. “You know we wouldn’t do that, Riley. Or at least, you used to. You used to trust me. Trust that I could trust my people. Giles, Xander…”

Riley didn’t answer. A dozen emotions flickered across his face, legible even across thousands of miles, in darkness lit only by the light of satellite video equipment. 

Over his shoulder, Sam looked torn. ‘Here’s the thing, Buffy. I get that you would never wanna hurt anyone. Ri gets it. But those people—the ones in charge?—they don’t know you like we do. And what you’re doing right now… It’s gonna scare them. I’m not surprised they’re coming after you. To them, you’re gonna be a threat, because you’re an unknown quantity. When there was just one or two of you, that was one thing, but now…’

Buffy nodded over her arms. “Not such an unknown quantity, huh?” She zeroed in on her ex, fixed her gaze flatly on his. “The guy we ran into down there, General Voll? He said that my ‘dossier’ included some pretty specific information on my taste in men. Then he gave me a nice lecture about the perils of even ‘a demon like me’ getting too cozy with creatures of the night, like he was my dad or something.” She kept a very close eye out, watching for those minute glitches in Riley’s expression that said ‘guilty!’ as she went on. “Now, here’s the thing, Riley. Back when you were in the Initiative as an active member, you didn’t know about Angel. You found out about him _after_ you quit. And the thing with Spike… I somehow kind of thought you’d keep that between us, considering how we left that little conversation.” _Flinch_. “So I’m interested to know exactly how the military has a dossier with a long, complicated history all spelled out when it comes to my checkered romantic past, unless a certain ex of mine decided to air all my dirty laundry to them.” 

Riley’s eyes dropped briefly away. /Bingo, buddy./ Time to go in for the kill. “Which then leads me to ask just exactly how much said ex might know about this ‘Twilight’ group that’s coming after me, if he might’ve known they were investigating me for…”

‘It wasn’t like that!’ Riley protested, eyes jolting back up to her face. ‘Look, you have no idea! After they closed up shop with the Initiative, you think they were gonna leave you alone? You think they were gonna stop watching you? You were a person… a _being_ of interest! You have superpowers, for God’s sake! I tried to run interference for you, and some things slipped out…’

Behind Buffy, over by the foot of the bed and just out of range of the camera, Spike growled, low and uneven. The umbilicus between them roiled with irritation and the much-belated need to protect his mate from a threat. Buffy reached out with both hand and along the formless tether, stilled him with a sort of unseen caress before she dropped her hand. The growls cut off to near-subsonic grumbles. “So… was that how you knew where to find me when you came back into town? You just, what? Checked the surveillance videos of the old flame, or read the file or whatever, found out I was working at the Doublemeat, and dropped in?” Really, she had originally just assumed he’d figured out her whereabouts from Social Security or some other secret-agenty thing, but this made a new, terrible sense, and it made her coldly furious in retrospect.

‘Uh, more or less. I mean, it wasn’t exactly a secret, where you were working…’

Sam tilted her head around her husband’s large frame, looking confused. ‘When did you get those reports, Ri? I thought you just knew where to go. I remember; you just said, “Well, I guess it’s about time you met her, huh?” And I said, “You sure you want me to?” And you said, “Yeah, well, it’s bound to happen sometime. Anyway, she’s not gonna be tough to find. She’ll either be at home or the graveyard. There’re like fifteen in that town,” and we just headed in for the drop…’

_‘Sam…’_ Riley looked positively alarmed now. 

‘Got our gen on where the Suvolte was hiding, put up at the coord spot for a few hours while you did some recon…’

“Wait.” Buffy held up one hand, thoroughly thrown. “A few _hours?_ I thought you came straight to me the minute you got to town.”

Sam was still rattling on in her friendly way, clearly unable to tell that she had stepped into some serious continuity errors. ‘Well, first he couldn’t find you, so he called your friends. But he couldn’t get ahold of them. Got their machines…’

Buffy swung on Willow, a chill sliding down her spine and into her belly. It had never occurred to her to ask, and now she had no idea _why_ , because… “Wil, how long did you know Riley was back in town before you all met us at the house? You and Xander knew before I did. I remember, because I was like the last to know that he was married, and you two were all, ‘Hey, man, how’s the new missus!’”

Willow blinked, clearly surprised by the left-field question. “Uh, I dunno, Buffy. I got the voicemail sometime earlier that day, but I was, you know, in class and stuff, so I didn’t…”

Buffy whirled back to stare at the screen… and saw it. The tell. The way Riley was holding his head on his neck, like it pained him to be in the conversation, so he was going to resolve everything by standing at full attention, almost. Stoic. Unmoved. /Oh, _hell_ no./ “Riley,” she ground out, and she knew she sounded damned forbidding, “how did you know I worked at the DMP? If you and Sam didn’t do any research before you came to town…”

Sam was now watching her husband with almost the same look on her face as Buffy thought she was wearing; that, ‘Huh. You have some explaining to do, buster, if you lied’ look. ‘Yeah, Ri. You told me you just happened to run into her. Saw she was wearing the uniform for the place, but you didn’t want to interrupt her till the end of her shift…’

Buffy felt like she needed to sit down. She needed to lean on something. Needed to…

Spike was there for her, of course, the bond between them an invisible bulwark she could cling to as the revelation hit her. “You saw me in my uniform,” she muttered. “Except… the only time I wore it before you came into the DMP and pulled me out—totally interrupting my shift, by the way—was the night before, when my other shift ended…” And it really hit Buffy then, so she actually did have to sit down. Because he would have just come to her house, the first time, if he’d wanted to find her. It would have been late evening, so he wouldn’t think she’d be anywhere else but there or one of the cemeteries. And she remembered everything about that night, of course, because unfortunately when it was one of the last two times you were with your lover before the end, those things kind of got branded into your brain. “Was it a night-drop, Sam?”

‘What?’

“When you came into town,” she insisted grimly. “Did you and Riley get dropped off at night. The night before you met me?” Clarification was good.

Riley was being extremely silent, Buffy noticed through almost glazed eyes, and his expression had turned to stone. 

‘Oh. Um, yeah.’ Sam was looking exceedingly confused, now. ‘Yeah, Buffy; we got dropped at around 1800 hours over in that little stretch of forest by the college, did our recon. Ri went looking for you but couldn’t find you at first. I was a zero on the Suvolte, so we holed up for the rest of the night and planned our next move. We got some sack-time, then Ri said he had some contacts to hit up. He did some research, and then the next night he found you…’

“Wait; you two were in town for a whole day before you came by? I had no idea!” Willow sounded amazed.

Buffy wasn’t amazed. She was nauseous. /He went looking for me, sans the missus. A nice little reunion. Except, when he found me… he really didn’t want to talk to me, considering what he’d just seen. Probably he decided to totally reassess everything—and, of course, completely blamed it on Spike, because I had to stay the totally untarnished queen of his memory or whatever. But first he had to get past what he saw, because how he found me was…/

She remembered very clearly what she had been doing that night. In technicolor. With bells on. And it was the only reason that she could think of that her ex would not have let her know he was in town that night. Because if he’d waltzed up her sidewalk, and seen…

/God, Spike; if I’d just let you come in, come to bed with me… Me and my stupid, lame excuses—as if Dawn would have been anything less than thrilled that we were together—then maybe…/ Because that had been the second-to-last. And then the last…

Had ended in explosions. Fire. Poison and betrayal and pain. “Riley,” she heard herself say, as if from a great distance, “I need you to tell me right now; if you came to my house to look for me, why did you say you didn’t find me? Because we both know I was there.”

She opened her eyes, fixed them on him. Saw him wince. 

And saw the bitter truth there.

/Oh, God./ “So, what?” she almost-whispered. “You saw us, and you just walked away? Decided you’d… What? Save me from myself? After dropping back into town without any knowledge of what my life was like, what was going on, what I was going through, or why? What Spike meant to me, none of it? You just decided you’d wreck it for my own good? And so you plotted for a whole day, then came to my work in the middle of a shift. Didn’t tell me you were married or what your objective was with the Suvolte; just used my instincts and my responsibility against me, complimented me, flirted with me, let me think I could have had it so much better if I’d never let you go, then waved your life around in front of me and…”

‘Buffy…’ His voice was strangled. 

“Saw you what?” Willow demanded, sounding completely at sea.

Buffy didn’t enlighten her. Something had just occurred to her, completely belatedly—like, three _years_ belatedly—and it was agonizing. 

She turned wildly to Spike. To the man who had never, _ever_ lied to her; except maybe once, to tell her he didn’t like her hair, of all lame things. 

/Oh God./ Because all of her instincts had _screamed_ to her in that moment, down in his crypt, that Spike was in no way capable of arranging something like weapons-dealings with foreign powers. Not this broke-ass vampire who could barely scrape blood-money together and whose idea of a good night was not getting caught cheating at kitten poker; and certainly not the vampire who would rather have dusted at that point than do anything to disappoint her, look bad in her eyes, or in any way jeopardize his chances of spending a single second longer in her tempestuous, mercurial company, no matter how badly she had treated him. Because he had loved her beyond all idiotic reason. 

And god; when the hell would he have had the _time?_ Smuggling the things downstairs for a little extra cash was one thing, but making international arrangements, and wheeling and dealing and… She had monopolized damn near his every free moment that wasn’t spent huddling out of the daylight, so it wasn’t like he could’ve just jaunted down to Willy’s midday to use the phone to call some dictator in Syria or something to arrange such a crazy scheme, as if that was even a thing that made sense. And if he had been doing something that vast and insane, would he have been chill enough to have sex with her right upstairs, just above these super-powered living bioweapons? 

No. He’d have found an excuse to hustle her outside for some top-of-the-tomb exhibition sex, or inveigled her into a sparring match, even if he’d had to piss her off first so she’d throw down, or… 

_“If I may, the thing of it is, I'm holding these for a friend…”_

She was going to collapse. Spike had been telling her the god’s honest truth. He would have been just idiot enough to do it, too, for the money. Would have leapt at anything if someone offered the right amount. Probably he’d wanted to get enough not only to buy some nicer blood, but maybe even to help _her_ out, too. He’d always kept his eyes open for some little scheme or other in town, so if somebody higher up the food chain—like an _actual_ international demonic weapons-dealer, for instance—had come to him some night while he’d been drowning his Buffy-made sorrows in Willy’s and said, “I heard you’re a man who needs cash,” he’d have leapt at the opportunity. 

_And_ , Spike had been a discrete vampire with a private accommodation. Considering that said weapons dealer would have had had heat on him and would have needed to unload something really quick before the soldiers found him… Match made in hell, right? 

It all lined up. So much better, in fact, than the insane scenario she’d been spun when Riley had first walked into the DMP with zero info on his lips but, ‘Hey, love your hair, but you look bad in the uniform, here’s something black and sexy to wear so I can watch you change in my hefty government ride’. After all, the Suvolte would have had to have been in town long enough to have laid her eggs before the weapons dealer could have acquired them and made off with them. /Like, say, an extra damn day, maybe?/ And of course it would make sense for said criminal to have wanted to secure them in a nice, safe, out of the way place in the interim; like Spike’s pad. A crypt, by the way, famous in town because Spike was protected by, of all people, the Slayer…

_“You can stop calling me that any time.”_

Spike was never ‘the Doctor’. Or even if he was—and yes, she had read "Of Human Bondage" since. It was one of his favorites, for reasons which were readily apparent once she had gotten past about probably chapter two, and which ashamed her not a little, in retrospect—there was no reason whatsoever that 'the Doctor' had to be the same guy who'd done all this international wheeling and dealing.   
  
She could see it all now. Spike had, at best, used that alias, if he had used it at all, to earn a little extra cash under her nose doing things that were barely dangerous (and no doubt probably mostly just sordid), to get away with helping her and Dawn, and to afford a little human blood here and there. But all this 'selling international bioweapons' stuff? /Just, no. Oh, God…/

She had told Riley that it couldn’t be. She had been so sure that she would have known. That she could read her lover… and had lost even that last shred of self-assurance, carefully stitched together over that last few painstaking months when her ex had not-looked at her with such sick disappointment and woven his web of lies; as if she had been too blinded by sex and made so idiotic by her need for dirty vamp-boning to know which way was up. 

/And I bought it. I bought it and forgot everything I knew about Spike, about my town, about the demons in it… And about myself./

Her knees were shaking, her hands; in retroactive relief, but also in a terrible, sick surge of guilt and… rage. Rage that Riley would use her shame, her uncertainty over the relationship against her in that way, to flat-out lie. Because now that she thought about it, her ex hadn’t seemed remotely shocked to see her with Spike when he’d busted into the crypt. Not upset that she was taking a siesta on slaying-time to shack up, and sure the hell not upset to find her _en_ _flagrante delicto_ with a vampire he detested.

He’d been disgusted, yes, but totally unsurprised. It had been her own guilt, fear, shame, et al that had kept her from seeing the signs. That he had _expected_ to find her there, with Spike. And it had been all of her own garbage, in the face of that disgust, that had made her read Spike’s reactions all wrong. His jitteriness; not nearly enough to be on par with being a crazed weapons-dealer, for sure… but definitely enough to want to keep her out of his chilly-ass bedroom for a day or two. 

_“There’s nothing to see down there…”_

Sure, he had lied, and counted it as lying more to 'Captain Cardboard' than to her. Granted, he hadn’t wanted her to _see_ the eggs and find out that he was up to some other hair-brained scheme she'd never approve of—both because she wouldn't permit him his usual under-the-table bullshit, and because she had never allowed him to help her in any way—but it had been clear that he also hadn’t had any idea what the eggs would do, or he would’ve refrigerated them. Yet another point in his favor, because if he had been the real kingpin in that situation, wouldn't he have known?  
  
/God./ So much evidence, if she had only bothered to spare one second to think; but in that moment she hadn't had brain cell one to spare past her own embarrassment, her own horror. It all seemed so obvious now. Probably the real weapons-dealer hadn’t bothered to explain the full implications to him before handing the things over. /Being in a hurry to get away from the soldiers hot on your tail would do that to a black-market demon; especially after the whole Initiative thing./ All the demons in Sunnydale knew to steer clear of military after that debacle, since not a single one ever wanted to spend time being prodded or eviscerated by human scientists ever again. /The guy probably even had connections to get out of town quick, and Riley maybe decided to just blame Spike so he had a scapegoat to put on his record as a confirmed neutralized threat or whatever. Or maybe he did actually find the bad guy and kill him before he came to the crypt and…/

And lied to her about who was really behind it all.

_“Oh, this is..._ unconstitutional _, is what it is!”_

They had invaded his sanctum. Ignored his protests, his rights as a person, if not an actual citizen—which, by the way, was a thing that still rankled Buffy, in hindsight—and… 

And then everything he had ever owned had been destroyed. Not that there had been any choice by then. Not when the things had started hatching and climbing all over everything, lethal and ready to escape to pupate throughout the known world. But…

She whirled back to the laptop. “I _believed_ you.” She had believed _Riley_. Believed an ex with a clear grudge and a serious blind spot… over her current lover—a man who had tried desperately to keep her and her sister safe and provided for and who had loved her as much as she had permitted despite endless loads of abuse piled on his head, and who had professed his adoration again and again, on his knees. Who damn near worshiped her and who had never, _would_ never leave—and she had, of course, like a bitch, believed the human guy who _had_ left her; the one with the past Nazi affiliations and the fucked-up moral meter… because he was _human_. Nothing more. Because he was human and Spike was a demon, and that somehow automatically made Riley better, more truthful, more believable, more…

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Spike.” She turned back to him, tears in her eyes. “I…”

“Shh.” He was in the camera’s frame now, closing with her to pull her to her feet, fingers in her hair to caress it back. “Don’t even worry about it. ‘S in the past, remember? Past is dead with us.”

“But I let him make me…”

“I know. Had you all twisted up…”

Behind them, from the screen, Sam’s voice. ‘Ri, what’s she saying? What did you do?’

He hadn’t told her. /Never let her know that your ex was doing the guy you were pretending was this evil, genocidal death-dealer of yours? Guess not, though, since that would’ve made you look crappy by association, huh, to let your current wife know that your ex prefers vamps to you? God; what? Did you just tell her you’d found and ‘neutralized’ the Doctor? Which was, let’s face it, the actual truth, probably; or closer to it than what you told _me_./ Buffy felt literally nauseous. /I suppose you think I should be _grateful_ to you for not spilling the beans about my part in all of it?/ 

The really sucky part was, she probably would have been, back then. Would have thought it was him being chivalrous, hiding her weakness from his new wife and all of her friends. But no. What Riley had really been doing was burying his complicity in a cover-up, and in his weird obsession with a girlfriend he had dumped a year prior. 

The back of Spike’s fingers were sliding down her face now, to tip up her chin. “Knew it was him, in your head. Knew it then, know it now, Love.”

“But I…” She closed her eyes. “God, I should’ve _believed_ you. I’m such a moron.” Forced them open to meet his, prayed he’d understand. How much she regretted her own prejudices, and what they had done to him. To them both. “Spike, I’m so unbelievably sorry. I should’ve worked on it. Changed me, changed us. I think I was even… almost ready.” /Oh God; I almost cracked, that night, seeing Riley. Almost gave you… Almost opened myself up a little. We might’ve…/

/And _then_ …/ “I should’ve never said goodbye.”

Spike dropped his head. Kissed her; drew her in close. His duster was still warm from the fire, and he was rocking her a little. “So bloody long ago, Slayer. Long over. We’ve both made up for it, since, yeah?”

“I wrecked your house.”

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest to vibrate her being. “Don’t recall you askin’ me to hatch a bunch of man-eatin’ spiders in my soddin’ bedroom, innit? That one’s not on you.”

She let out a shaky breath. /But breaking your heart over it is./ God, she owed him so much. /I will always owe you so, _so_ much./

“Wait… Spike had the Suvolte eggs in _his_ place?” Willow was still trying to keep up, though she was clearly lost as hell. “That doesn’t make any sense. He didn’t have any international contacts! And he would rather have _died_ than do anything to piss you off. I mean, not more than the usual punch in the nose…”

And just like that, it all crashed in again. /Oh God; even _Willow_ sees it. I am so _stupid!_ / Buffy fought to breathe as the tears threatened to swamp her. 

‘No, that’s not what the report…’ Sam’s voice registered thorough confusion over their uplink. ‘Finn, you said you located the cache of eggs and destroyed them with the aid of a local contact—Buffy, obviously—and that ‘the Doctor’ was neutralized. If this vampire Buffy’s with was the Doctor, he’d be dust. Either that, or you didn’t neutralize the target…’ Something hard settled into Sam Finn’s tones. ‘Which means you’ve either perjured yourself in an official report, or you lied to Buffy about who was moving the contraband.’ A short, fraught pause. ‘Oh.’

Sam’s uncomfortable surmise was the least of Buffy’s problems right now. The Finns’ marriage difficulties… not her circus, not her monkeys. And deserved, on Riley’s part. But her and Spike…

/No, no, no…/

“Only thing matters, pet, is you know.” His voice was low, quiet; only for her. She mostly caught it through his throat rather than from the air. 

“God, why didn’t you ever…” She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Wouldn’t’ve believed me, Buffy.”

He was right. She wouldn’t have. She had accepted the ‘fact’ of his guilt. /Oh God./ “Spike… _William._ I…”

The bond went taut at her use of his given name. “No. Not here.”

Buffy caught the note in his voice. She didn’t need the warning in the bond to halt immediately. To pull herself together and breathe. /Later. Right. Later. When we’re alone./ 

She spent a moment just clutching at his sides under the duster; breathing him in. His impossible forgiveness… and the reality of the matter. /I have done, and will continue to do, what I can to make up for my part in this. But _Riley_ …/ 

Tensing, she kissed Spike in the hollow of his throat to let him know what she was about, then turned again, this time with her back firmly up against the man she had long since chosen. /And thank God for that!/ Faced down the one she had once thought was endgame, watched him stone-faced on the screen, with hard eyes. “Well, you got what you wanted out of that, Riley. For a while, anyway. You broke us up, ‘saved me from myself’. But it didn’t take. So now I need to know; are you gonna let this be something big enough to destroy me even more? Because it almost destroyed me then. Made me sure I was wrong; horrible, evil, broken. And now I’m healed. Finally, after years of coming to terms with who and what I am; like climbing out of a dark pit. And the fallout from that… it actually _did_ kill Spike. Which, by the way, damn near killed me, if you care.” That, in case her ex still wanted to profess the righteousness of his acts on those godawful two days in which he had come traipsing back into her life, damn him. She hardened her tones; put all things Slayer into her next words. “So I think you owe me. For the lies, at the very least, much less busting into my life like you owned it to do me a ‘favor’ like that one after you were supposed to have moved on.”

On the screen, Sam was staring at her husband as if she had never seen him before. ‘Ri, we’re gonna have a serious talk about all this as soon as this feed goes dead.’

Riley wasn’t talking. His jaw was clenched, everything about him tense.

‘Agent Finn. I think you owe the Slayer a pretty massive apology. Pronto.’

/Ouch./ Sam Finn was pissed. Some people maybe not so much with the pleased that their husband hadn’t been totally honest about some things. 

Riley trembled visibly. Looked down and away. ‘I, uh, might’ve done some things when we were in Sunnydale that I’m not proud of…’

Buffy made a scathing sound. If this was an in-person interview, she would’ve already punched her ex-boyfriend right in the face. Seriously? ‘Not proud of’? 

He’d been pretty damn proud of himself when he’d done it, for sure.

A low, matching snort of equal derision ruffled the crown of Buffy’s hair, cool and familiar. She drew strength from it; leaned back. “Riley, you were convinced you were in the right. It never even _occurred_ to you to ask me how I felt. You just charged in and tried to fix my life for me; apparently without saying one word to your wife and partner about it…”

‘Oh, Buffy, believe you me, we’re gonna have _words_ about this after this little chat is over.’

Riley started to look seriously hunted. ‘I tried to make it up to you. After! When I sent the surgeon to help with the chip. I left it in your hands. Told you I trusted you. That… even if I didn’t get it, even if I was jealous that you were letting… a thing like _him_ have a part of you you never gave to me, I was willing to…’

“Oh. That’s so sweet of you.” She bit her lip, shaking with rage. “You _owe_ me, Finn. And now I’m coming to collect.”

Riley flinched again, this time hard enough to set him back on his heels. ‘Buffy, it’s not that easy. The intel you’re gonna want…’

_“Make_ it that easy. Because what you almost cost me—what you _did_ cost Spike—is more than I’m willing to put on a charge-card for future reference. Don’t _even_ get me started on your whole, sadistic, staking him behind my back with plastic wood-grain even though you knew he was under my protection, to scare him off me; do you know it took him _months_ to heal completely from that, living on pig’s blood? Or the fact that you were a part of a Nazi outfit that operated on him without anesthesia, so that I still have to hold him in his sleep while he has screaming nightmares about being butchered alive…”

“Wait, Riley staked Spike?” Willow demanded, clearly at a loss now. “When did…”

Buffy waved it off, Spike tense as a board at her back. “You _owe_ us,” she repeated grimly. “Sending a few guys to hold guns over us while a doc pulls his chip doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it.”

Riley was pale now, while his wife watched him with clear disbelief. ‘You don’t get it, Buffy. These people are convinced that you’re a demon. That you’re a supernatural, vamp-loving gang-leader, with an outfit of super-powerful women at your beck-and-call. And since just one of you was able to wipe out a whole platoon of trained Special Forces guys and seal up a black ops base—and you freed incarcerated demons when you did it, so which side are you on, you know?—how can they risk there being hundreds of you…’

Moment of truth. “Do you think I’m evil, Riley? That I’m gonna lead the Slayers and go after humanity?”

Riley stilled. ‘I don’t think you’re evil. But if they came after your people? The demons you’ve decided aren’t that big a deal… You would.’ His mouth creased into a thin line. ‘You already did. And that means you’ve already chosen them over the humans. Buffy, don’t you see…’

“No, _you_ need to see, dammit!” She was really just done. “I’ve chosen peaceful coexistence over permanent warfare! We _all_ share this planet! Yeah, I’ll help kill any brainless nester demon who’s gonna lay eggs that’ll destroy everyone, or who kills on sight, or does exotic baby-rituals, or whatever. But _not all demons are incompatible with human life!_ You don’t get it, because your mandate was always to wipe ‘em all out—as if that’s even _possible_ with other dimensions and hellmouths—but you have _no_ idea how many demons and half-demons you live alongside every day. Like me; ‘cause did you know what I was till I showed you? _I_ didn’t even know, really!”

Riley looked away, clearly uncomfortable. She didn’t let up. “We’re as much a part of your daily economy and lifestyle as, like, illegal immigrants or whatever, whether some of us can ‘pass’ or not. And this is just as much a witch-hunt as that one, because demons have _no_ rights—not even human rights, because they’re not human—so you get to kill them if you want and no one will even blink. So do I, for that matter, if I think they’re looking cross-eyed at me, and they have no one to go to to stop us but some bigger, badder demon.”

She could see Sam watching her as she went on; a fascinated appraisal of an intellectual discussion. Sam Finn, ROTC and Peace Corps, former college girl, had always come at the demons from a more anthropological stance. Maybe she would prevail upon her gung-ho hubby. Just maybe. “So of course there’ve been problems; but that’s why I have to try to _fix_ this! Because they built me and my girls out of the population that was trying to kill humanity, to _save_ humanity by turning the demons _against_ themselves. And I’m _tired_ of being used.”

Spike was rumbling again, against her back, the way he always did when he was reminded of her youth, her inexperience, her handling at the ungentle auspices of the Council. “But,” she informed her ex, leaning forward into the screen, “I’m as much human as demon, and I’ve been programmed beyond anything you can possibly believe to protect human life. I can barely lift my hand against a human if they’re trying to kill me, tend to believe humans are telling me the truth over a demon even when that demon is my lover…”

Spike made a sound that was half groan, half ironic chuckle. Riley winced again. Buffy drove it home. “So no. I’m not gonna start killing anyone who isn’t hurting me or mine; on either side. But if they come after us, I’ll do what I have to do.” She folded her fingers into her vampire’s; solidarity and faith. “I’m gonna have to be real here, Agent Finn. If you wanna save your boys from a war that they won’t win, you have to get them to stand down, and keep them from starting a massacre that will end in mutual destruction. Because frankly, I’m about done being the thin Slayer line between species. I’ve been a cop my whole life; but one who isn’t paid, and it gets really, really tiring after about the third death. Dying, sacrificing friends, family, love, over and over… it really makes you start to question your priorities. And I gotta tell you; in the last year mine have shifted drastically from what they were before I lost everything when Sunnydale fell into the ground.”

If she could read Riley, he could read her. He nodded acknowledgment, while still staring at what she was assuming were his boots. But he didn’t volunteer anything. 

There was a short, charged silence; one which Sam broke, tentatively but with a strange note of hope in her voice. ‘Buffy, do you think you can actually broker some kind of peace between the demon world and the human world?’

/Huh. What do you know?/ “We’re working on it. We’ve been working on it, every day since I found Spike again last summer. And I’m not gonna stop till we make it happen. But it’d be a hell of a lot easier if the military wasn’t trying to wage war on me and my girls while I do it.”

Sam whirled on her husband, face set. ‘Looks like you’re going under deep cover, Agent Finn.’

Riley gaped at his wife. ‘You’re not serious.’

Sam’s expression said she was serious as a heart attack, and you know what? Buffy had always known she’d liked that woman. She’d wanted to hate the chick who’d married her ex, but Sam was clearly just what Riley needed to keep him in hand. ‘Oh, I’m very serious. Get your groveling boots on, find something pretty to wear, shine your shoes. You’re goin’ to DC. I’ll mop up here.’

Buffy would have cheered if she wasn’t so heart-sore. 

Riley knew when he was beat. He turned back to the screen, eyes downcast again. Nodded once. ‘Guess I’m reporting for duty.’ He even had a faint hint of amusement in his voice; that note a guy got when he was acknowledging, very ruefully, that he was seriously whipped. When his gaze lifted back to face Buffy, he looked troubled but clear-eyed again. ‘I’ll do what I can, Buffy. See if I can parlay my old Initiative membership and my… former association with you to get inside. But I’m gonna have to spin it that I have a grudge, because you lost me my perfect service record. That I don’t trust you. Hate you, even. Give them half a real story…’

She had already known that much. Had sometimes wondered how much of it might be true on some subconscious level. /You ever wonder if you do have a grudge, Riley? Because you gave all that up for me… and then I didn’t turn out to be what you thought I was? Because I couldn’t be what you wanted me to be? Because I’m sorry. I needed to be with a guy who got that I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. That the mission came first. That I couldn’t make myself less so that you could be ‘the guy’. I can’t afford it and I shouldn’t _have_ to; I need to be with someone who _celebrates_ what I am. If you couldn’t accept me and my mission and still feel like I was good enough to be your ‘worth the sacrifice, I gave my all’ boo, then guess what? I gave you everything I could./ And… some people had just never understood her. 

One in particular always had. Would always have her back, admire her for what she was.

Spike’s presence was a fortification against her back as she kept it simple. “I need you in there. Do what you have to do.” /Not for me. Not some sacrifice./ She got that she was asking him to put himself in serious danger. But… This was a noble cause. And… /It’s because you owe me. No other reason. To balance the scales./

A short hesitation, then… ‘You’ll do what you can, right? To keep it from being a bloodbath?’

Buffy held her breath for a moment, then let it loose. “I always do.”

***  
  
  
  
  
  
(Quote by Bob Moawad)  
And pardon my french, but f**k Riley.  
ahem.  
(GOD, that episode makes me irate.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. What happens here? Where were we, even? (My brain's stuck ahead of here where I'm currently writing a bunch of plotty comix-rewrite stuff.)
> 
> Oh, right. Aftermath of the Interview with an Ex. Yeah. That. Debriefing. Hopefully I've made it fun, as well as, you know, emotional in bits. I tried. And then we drive around that little historical sidebar and dive back into the plotty stuff. With a vengeance! Yay! (Hopefully also with fun relationship dividends for some characters heart )
> 
> Thank you, so very much, for all your kind words of late. I am grateful for every word.

Willow still seemed stunned by the one-sided revelation she’d just received during their conversation with the Finns. “So he… convinced you that Spike was this ‘Doctor’… arms-dealer-person… so he could break you up… because he spied on you in your yard… and saw you two…” She stuttered to a halt, clearly unable to continue articulating her conclusions.

Buffy was way past the time in which she would have lied, or even softened the blow to make things easier on Willow’s sensibilities. “Having sex against a tree, yeah.”

Spike let out an amused snort; one mostly buried in the back of her neck. He was nuzzling there, as he tended to do in the aftermath of some deeply emotional catharsis. Not that they’d finished said catharsis or anything, but he was showing solidarity, which was nice of him, considering. 

“Against… But wh…”

“The pine tree or whatever it was. Not the palm tree. Those hurt. We learned that in Hell-A…”

“Was a fir tree, pet. Smoother bark.”

Buffy tilted her head back a little, diverted. “Oh. Really?”  
  
“Yeah. Less sap most times, too.”

“Oh. Good to know.”

“Shorter needles, as well.”

“Huh. The more you know.”

“Why were you… doing it against a _tree?”_ Willow demanded, clearly floored by their frank appraisal of ‘best trees for vertical sex, 101’. 

Buffy sighed and leaned back a little more, letting her head fall next to Spike’s cheek. “Because I was being a bitch and I wouldn’t let him come in to bed with me.”

“Buffy…”

“What? It’s true. Oh, and also I have a little thing for exhibitionism.” She made a face, staring at the ceiling. “Which, you know, kind of shot me in the butt that time. _And_ Spike. Dammit.” She turned her cheek a little toward her guy. “Remind me of that the next time I decide to show off how I’m not a good girl? You know; you never know who might be watching…”

“Doubt you have any jealous exes wandering about the south coast of Spain, luv.” He paused to smirk against the side of her neck. “Do you?”

“Oh, shut up. We still never know when Dru’s gonna pop back into our lives…”

That aside earned her a chilly huff. “Now that’s a low blow, Slayer.”

“Okay, you know what? I don’t think I need to hear any more about your… escapades…” Willow sounded both horrified and aggrieved.

For some reason, those tones only sparked some old remnants of rebellion in Buffy. She found herself grinning at her friend in broad challenge. “Good. Then I won’t tell you how many places we anointed around town. Like half the headstones in Restfield, a few crypts in the other cemeteries… the balcony at the Bronze…”

Willow already had her hands halfway over her ears, eyes wide and ‘lalala’-ing… but at this last she dropped them and stared in clear horror. “You _didn’t_.”

“Forgot against the outside wall of burger hell, pet.”

“Oh. Right. Well, you said you wanted me to service you…”

“And the customer is always right.”

“Goddess, _please;_ stop. This is a disgusting display of heterosexuality gone wild…”

Spike smirked, rolling his tongue devilishly. “Jealous, Red? Afraid we were havin’ too much fun?”

“Oh, please. I was having plenty of my own fun. You know… in the bedroom, like a normal person!”

/Right. And when you went bad it was with Dark Magicks. When I ‘went bad’ it was somewhat public sex with a vampire who loves me beyond all reason, but apparently in comparison that’s a big no-no? Unlike some people, _we_ weren’t hurting anyone else!/ 

Buffy fought to bite back the old irritation. She and Wil were getting back on track. No need to dredge up old garbage now. But she was suddenly over needling their friend, and far more interested in the day’s fallout. 

At least Buffy was feeling better than she had been a few minutes ago. The light, flirtatious teasing had gone a long way toward resettling their couple-y equanimity. Turning to Spike, she blew out a breath and rocked herself a little in his arms. “I don’t like this. The world’s trying to break in and drag us out of hiding.”

He nuzzled deeper, arms tightening around her waist. “Did notice that, Love.”

She didn’t want it. Wanted to stay happily buried in anonymity. “Maybe we can put it off. Keep working from the shadows for as long as possible…”

“Think at some point they’re gonna need you to come back and pick up the banner.”

Buffy closed her eyes, feeling something akin to dread. “Back to active duty, huh?” It felt traitorous in the extreme to even think it, but… /God. I just really, really don’t want it./

His hands, running lightly up and down her forearms to soothe her, told her he knew everything she was thinking, feeling. As well he might, since she was probably setting off every alarm he had on their bond. “Can probably hold off long as we’re still puttin’ down the groundwork,” he murmured finally, reassuring as ever. “Delegate the buildup an’ that.” Then his hands stilled into reluctance. “But once the buggers strike… Got to be prepared, yeah?”

Buffy sighed and nodded against his cheek. “Yeah. I know.” She turned her face a little more, seeking the solace of his cool flesh. Caught his fingertips between her knuckles in a bid to thread their hands together. He joined her willingly enough, palms covering the backs of hers and fingers folding into the spaces between her own. 

“We’re going back, after, okay?” she told him quietly. “I’m not giving this up.”

“Anything you want, Slayer,” he murmured easily.

Either he didn’t believe she’d be able to extricate herself, contract or no… or he was getting bored, and wondered if he’d want to stay out of hiding himself, once they’d emerged. “If that’s… what _you_ want?”

The bond flooded abruptly with firm certainty, underlaid with a faint hint of sarcasm for her vulnerable question. “I want to be where you are. Full stop. If you’re in a battle, I’ll be there. If you’re teaching martial arts to a bunch of half-demon kids by a beach, I’m there. If you’re in a monastery some bloody place, I guess I better learn to sodding meditate…”

Buffy scoffed at the very thought of her vampire sitting still for more than five minutes—no, three—without breaking something. 

“…If you join a convent, I’ll break down the doors and shag you senseless against the walls till you remember what sanity’s like…”

“How did you know I thought of joining a convent, once?”

That had him jerking his head away to glare at her in amazement. “You better bloody well be joking, or I’ll have your ears.”

There was an actual thrill of shock running between them; and maybe horror? “You’re the one who brought it up,” she pointed out, equably enough.

“Slayer, what the bloody fuck.”

She managed a little half-shrug with her unoccupied shoulder. “I was going through a ‘done with men’ period.”

“Bleedin’ Christ. Where’s a fag when I need one?” 

Buffy lifted her eyebrows in amusement. “Your hands are actually shaking.”

“I just heard the goddess of my entire existence actually considered bein’ closed for business. I’m in soddin’ shock.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you two get out of here, and maybe come back for a visit someday when you learn how to have a conversation that actually doesn’t involve flirting every other second.”

Buffy smirked. “I think we’re being kicked out.” She pushed herself to her feet.

Spike rose behind her, voice a little pointed. “Not our fault you’re not gettin’ any, Red. Go find some nice Slayer to shag, or hunt yourself down a local witch, yeah? Must be a few, town the size of Glasgow…”

“Who says I’m not getting any?” Wil answered cheekily, grinning, and her eyes were sparkling. “Now, get out of here.” She waved her hand ostentatiously, and a portal appeared without only the slightest popping sound. Through it, their bedroom could be glimpsed, fresh paint over witchy gouges and all. “Oh, and Buffy?”

Buffy turned in the act of stepping through, hand in Spike’s. “Yeah?”

“I’m with him. Don’t ever join a convent. You’d go nuts in a week.”

Spike shoved her through, so that she stumbled as she exited into the slightly warmer climes of their room. Fetching up against the side of the bed, she glared back at him. “Rude.”

The portal shrank behind them to disappear with another quiet _pop_. “Red’s right. Hate to see the damage you’d do to a bunch of defenseless nuns, you had to go celibate and slay-free for more’n a week…” 

Buffy gave him a return shove. “Just because you think I can’t live without _your_ equipment, doesn’t mean…”

His arms caught her up, dragged her close. “A service to the world if you ensure that incredible quim is free to… public consumption, is all.”

“Public?”

He grinned at her, eyes dancing. “Private service, then. Public service if the walls of any inoffensive religious structures aren’t damaged in any way.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “By me trying to get out, or you trying to get in?”

“Crosses all over the bloody place in those things. I’d only need to hang about outside the gates and wait for you to get itchy and break loose. Shouldn’t take more’n a couple of days…”

“Think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

His hand slipped south, brushed her mons slightly through her clothes. “Maybe. But you puff up my ego, so it’s not my bloody fault, yeah?”

She closed her eyes and shivered, all playfulness gone. Shook her head, caught his wrist. “I owe you a freebie.”

He scoffed in dismissal. “I’m not keeping score, pet. C’mere.” And when he brought her up to his lips, murmured against her mouth, “I’m just glad to know… that we’re here. That nothing anyone else can do can take us away from each other. Because I’m yours, and you’re mine. End of.”

She flung her arms around his neck, nodding hard. “Me too. So very much mutual.”

“Alright then. Now let me sort you out, Love, and then you can sort me out. Because all this talk of you in a convent has me upset, I don’t mind sayin’. Think I need some reassurance before I can put it out of mind.”

With a sigh, Buffy tipped them back on the bed, let her fingers slide up to pop the buttons open on his wine-red shirt. And slipped her hand inside, over his scarred heart. Scarred, stopped, but still hers. “Anytime you need it, it’s yours,” she told him, very seriously.

He didn’t answer, but he did kiss her like she was the whole, entire world.

***

“I just really can’t believe it, still,” she whispered against his chest, some time later. Trailed her fingertips up to lightly brush the scar over his heart where her bigoted ex had once tried to stake him. /Asshole./ “I mean, I don’t know _why_ I’m having trouble believing it, with everything else he did to you. It’s just…” She shook her head and flattened her palm over the wide dimple, as if she could keep her vampire safe now, as she hadn’t even attempted to do then. “What does it say about _me_ , you know? That I thought I… loved him? A guy like that?”

Spike was very silent for a long moment; one of those silences only a vampire could manage. No breath, no movement; still as a statue. Then with a sigh he wrapped his arms around her and scooted them up till his back was against the wall and she was cradled against his chest. “Says you wanted to be normal, pet. Wanted to be loved without complications. Wanted it to be easy for a change, yeah? And when it wasn’t…”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I closed up and ran off.” A hurt little laugh escaped her before she had even realized it was there. “The Buffy Special. No one should ever leave me, but I can shut down and evade _them_ all I want…”

One arm detached itself from around her body, a hand running down over her hair. “Had a reason for coming up with that bit of defense, yeah?”

/Yeah. My father. Angel. Still…/

“Any road, that’s not what I was about to say.”

/Oh./ She shifted against him, grimacing. “Something worse?”

She could practically hear him roll his eyes. “No, you daft bint. Was going to say when it wasn’t easy, it broke your heart. Because you thought you could finally have some peace somewhere in your life… but the shite that plagues you, the world you live in, followed you even there. You had to admit everyone and everything has a dark underbelly and there’s no such bloody thing as normal.” He shook his head grimly; a motion she felt against the top of her head without looking. “Last bit of innocence you had left, I’m guessin’. Lost your youth to the Calling. Lost faith in any future to old Batface. Lost any innocent hopes and dreams you might still have scraped together to my git of a grandsire…” His hand slipped around to trail over her cheek. “Had whatever you might’ve dragged out of the wreckage blown to bits by Soldier Boy and realizin’ humans are as much monsters as anyone. And then you fucking died, and had to face it all with nothing left.”

Buffy shook her head firmly against his chest. “I had you.”

He snorted grimly. “Pretty imperfect consolation prize.”

“Excellent friend,” she told him sincerely, and poked his chest with one stubborn finger. “Truly wonderful confidant. A little misguided sometimes, and not so great himself at picking lovers...”

“Oi. I won the bloody lottery!” 

“That’s sweet. Total lie though; at least back then.”

“Don’t be daft. I wasn’t much better.”

Buffy didn’t want to fight; didn’t want to play the ‘who was worse for who’ game anymore, though to be real, she was still pretty damned sure that between the two of them, Spike would have won the prize for ‘best at trying to be an actual lover and friend’. /If only I’d just _let_ him./ Yeah, he’d fucked up a few times, out of impatience or frustration or sheer wrongheadedness, but he had sure the hell tried hard, which was a hell of a lot more than she’s been doing. /I mean, I know I had an excuse, but still. He didn’t even have a damn human soul engaged in the fight, tarnished or no./ “Agree to disagree,” she murmured into his sternum.

“Daft,” he repeated flatly.

She rolled her eyes, because he was still a dope. He’d do anything he could to build up her self-image; even to this day, and to his own detriment. He was nuts. _“I_ won the lottery,” she whispered.

His arms tightened around her, and he brought her up a little higher to bury himself in her hair, and her in his throat. 

/The lottery. Complete jackpot… and I almost lost you. I almost let… _him_ take you away from me. I _did_ let him. God, I was so _stupid_ …/ “Boy, can I pick ‘em, though, huh?” she muttered as the low, simmering rage of betrayal returned with reinforcements. “A controlling guy with multiple personalities and a penchant for seducing teenagers, and a sadistic, paternalistic Nazi. Both of them voyeurs.” 

Spike was still on his own trip, of course. “Don’t forget the low-grade, petty criminal with the inability to get past his obsession.”

/Oh, please./ “A very loving low-grade petty criminal,” Buffy answered, sliding her fingers into his. “I’d take him over the other ones, any day. Though…” She eyed his chin for a moment, pensive. “They’re obviously also obsessive—I mean, _Angel_ —and if Riley wasn’t, why would he have done that to you after he was already married and supposedly moved on…”

“Guess you inspire obsession, pet.” The admission sounded rueful.

“Yay me.”

A short silence passed between them. Buffy subsided back to his chest, exhausted by the very thought. It was just so _tiring_ , living up to some weird, ‘keep Buffy in a bubble’ obsession. All she had ever wanted was to be loved, not… that. 

“To be fair, I did my turn at…” Spike’s low rumble picked up frowny edges. “Well, wouldn’t quite call it voyeurism…”

Amusement filtered back in. “You lurked. You didn’t peep.”

“Oi! I stood about hopin’ to catch a glimpse of you. I in no way lurked…”

“Uhuh.” At least he was cheering her up. She had to button her lips together to keep from smiling broadly at his mock outrage; though she sobered swiftly enough. “Anyway, it’s nowhere near the same as following me from LA all the way to Sunnydale when I was a damn kid, or apparently watching me have sex with my new guy and then walking off to go come up with a plan to break us up because no way should I be happy without my ex in my life…”

A moment of silence, then, “You do kind of keep getting the patriarchal ones, Love.”

She pushed herself up abruptly to poke him hard in the chest with one finger. “Hence why I’ll keep you. They’re all, ‘don’t do blah blah blah, Buffy, it’s not good for you, it’s not safe’, and you’re all, ‘Live a little, Slayer; here’s some booze. Be a damn grownup…’”

He caught the offending digit in one hand. Lifted it, kissed the tip lightly. And love smoldered in his eyes. “Yeah, well. A lot in it for me in that bit of fraternizing,” he told her, low and husky with memory. “Got to watch you get all glowy and relaxed and… Well.” His free hand didn’t exactly slide up her thigh, but it did twitch. 

“See? Watch. Maybe instigate. Not peep. Big difference.” /And your obsession was only because you’re a vamp and you had no idea how to do anything else; how to act human, do it in a way that I could accept. You both lurked, you and your idiot grandsire, but at least you had the excuse of species, unlike Riley, who _was_ human and should’ve _known_ better than to go all stalker-style on me. And in your case, you could smell and feel and tell I wanted you, and you knew I was lying to your face, so it tripped every button you had to have me tell you you were inadequate to love me./ Her hand slipped up of its own accord to cup Spike’s cheek, so that his eyes found hers, bright and soft in the low light. /Because that’s the thing you’re best at, my William, isn’t it? Loving one person to distraction, and taking care of her no matter what. You may only have known how to love violently, then, but you did it with everything you had, so for me to say you couldn’t… it was like I was denying your whole identity. You had to prove me wrong, or kill yourself trying./

And it had nearly killed him; nearly killed them both, her denial of it. And then someone had come along to watch in turn; to exploit her self-doubt, and had neatly torn them apart, set them on the road to final, mutual destruction, while they were both still in the middle of learning how to do it _not_ -violently, which... /God. This just really, really sucks./ “I’m gonna have to punch him in the face when I see him again, aren’t I.” It wasn’t a question, if not quite a statement of intent. 

The bond between them swelled with satisfaction. “Speaking of watching, you do me a favor and make sure I’m standin’ about for that one, Love, or I’ll never forgive you, yeah?”

She met his eyes very seriously. “You know it.”

***

Despite everything they had gone through together in Hell-A, Angel wasn’t bothering to answer her calls. It made her anxious. It seemed suspicious. It had been two weeks since the Amy fiasco, and this was ridiculous. ‘Angel Investigations, we help the helpless!’

Buffy was more than a little taken aback to recognize the voice on the other end of the line. “Connor?”

‘Oh. Wow. Hi, Buffy. What’s up?’

/Um, maybe nothing, or maybe your father’s decided to throw in with the Military to come after me and my Slayers?/ “Uh… I had some stuff come up that Angel should know about, but he hasn’t been answering my calls, so I thought…” She trailed off, frowning at the phone. “Since when are you working for Angel Investigations?”

‘Oh, you know. Just helping out a little. Since we got back. It seemed right; you know, with so many people coming in just to get a glimpse of us and stuff. Didn’t want to leave it all on my father; and anyway…’ She could hear the uncomfortable shrug in his voice. ‘I think he needs me around. He still kind of freaks out if he doesn’t see me every other day.’

It tightened something in her chest. /What if they were threatening Connor, or…/ Angel would sell out anyone or anything to avoid losing his son again. If he really had one true love, it was his child… and honestly, Buffy couldn’t fault him for that. 

But, Connor really didn’t sound stressed or anything. Just his normal, young, slightly-overconfident-but-mostly-just-unprepossessing self. “I get that,” she answered quietly. “Watching you die… Well, it technically killed him.”

‘Yeah. Well.’ 

An uncomfortable silence fell over the line. Buffy decided to break the tension with a little small talk. /Or what passes for small talk when your only real contact with someone was in a godawful hell dimension./ “So, um, how are you, you know, reacclimating?”

The discomfort shed off a little. ‘Oh, you know. Back in school, when I’m not here. Dad and I train together downstairs, sometimes. He says it used to be a dojo, so why not make it one again…’

It sounded like what had happened in Hell-A was at least helping Angel to get past losing Cordelia, a little. Or maybe he had just realized that you couldn’t live in the past if you wanted to keep the relationships you had in the present. “I’m glad to hear it. That sounds… nice.” /And it at least sounds like he hasn’t left LA to go live in the Sunnydale crater or something nuts like that./ She struggled with it, but it was as much of an in as she was going to get. “Is he there right now? Not that I’m trying to get you off the phone, but I really do need to ask him something.”

‘Oh.’ Connor sounded slightly hesitant. ‘Uh, actually… he hasn’t really been here much lately. In the last couple of weeks.’ 

/Oh. Oh God…/

‘I teased him about it, actually, the last time he came home. Said he must have found a new girl or something. He just told me it was business, and thanked me for helping to mind the store.’ A shiver seemed to pass through the young man’s voice. ‘He really sounded… kind of strange, actually. I think something’s got him distracted.’ The hesitation mounted, and the tones leaked; of a boy who just wanted to keep the burgeoning connection with an estranged father. ‘I hope… he’s okay. He’s been acting weird.’

/Oh God, oh God…/ “You’re probably right,” she heard herself answer, as if she was speaking from some great distance. “He’s probably found himself a girlfriend. Or, I dunno… Maybe he’s on a case and he can’t tell you about it.” She cleared her throat, fighting for equanimity. “Who all is working with you there? Anyone who might know what he’s up to?” /That was a natural question, right? Like I’m only asking because he’s freaked? Not like I’m fishing for info?/

‘Yeah. Illyria’s here. Gunn, sometimes, though he’s kind of in and out. I tried to get Gwen to join up, but she’s been squirrely…’

As well she might be, after the whole betraying everyone in Hell fiasco. Though, being as Connor still didn’t know about that, she wasn’t going to be the one to spill the beans. “Oh, yeah? How is Gwen?” She asked it with half her mind far away.

‘I… I dunno. We kinda broke up. Which I don’t get, because now we’re finally back and she can control her power, you’d think…’ He cut off abruptly, sounding aggrieved but as if he were attempting to hold it back. ‘Sorry. Never mind.’

He thought he just had the reverse problem that his father had had. And maybe Angel was helping his son understand things from Gwen’s perspective… but she kind of thought her ex might be leaving out the whole ‘sick with guilt’ part. 

/Well, I can sure sympathize with both, from his perspective./ “It’s hard when someone you love pulls away because they feel like they can’t give you the kind of relationship they think you deserve.”

‘But that’s just it! I _love_ her! It doesn’t matter, you know?’

/Cute and romantic of you, but you’re lying to yourself, because it kind of does./ But anyway, that wasn’t the point. “For her there might be a lot more to it.” She sighed, since this was tough to get around without telling him the whole truth. “She might be holding a bunch of guilt or shame, too. It’s probably not just about hating what she is, or being afraid she’ll hurt you.” /She knows she already has./

Another long silence cut through the line, then, ‘You’re doing that whole “voice of experience” thing, from dating my dad, aren’t you? Please say no, because that’s just creepy.’

She wished she could say she wasn’t currently creeped out by his father, dammit. “I’ll stop talking, then.” This conversation had really done little but fill her with an unnamed dread. “I’m sorry things are rough with you and Gwen…”

‘Yeah, well. I’ll live.’

/That’s the spirit./ “Can you tell Angel to give me a call when he gets back?”

‘Of course.’ 

She was about to hang up when inspiration struck. “Hey, Connor… Quick question. When your father’s in… does he spend much time with Illyria?”

The line devolved into short silence. When his voice picked up again, it had a strange note in it. ‘Huh. Now that you mention it, he’s never really in the same room with her anymore. I wonder if he’s avoiding her.’ And then the line vibrated with abrupt shock. ‘Oh, man; you don’t think he has the hots for Illyria, do you?’

Buffy closed her eyes against the reality of her pained surmise. “No, Connor; I don’t think that’s it. Hey, I’ve gotta go, okay? I’ll talk to you soon. Hang in there, alright?”

‘Uh, okay. Thanks for checking in?’

“Yeah.” Hitting ‘end’, Buffy sat still for a moment and stared at the phone. “Oh my God.”

“Avoiding the Smurf lately, is he?” Spike asked from where he leaned against the uprights of the smoking porch. His eyes glittered as he stared out over the wandering, stone-lined path, the verge where sand petered out into stone and scrub and then asphalt. 

“Yeah,” Buffy whispered. She still couldn’t believe it. Like, not even a little bit.

Spike nodded and tossed down his cigarette. Stubbed it out with his boot, looking sour. And pain he didn’t permit to show on his face reeled between them through the bond; hers intermixing with his. “Hiding something, then. The Queen of Hell could sniff out a stray thought no matter how deep he buried it, if he was worried about something he was doing. I didn’t want anyone to know I was doubling up on my life, I’d stay the bloody hell away from her as well.”

Buffy closed her eyes. “I just… can’t. It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, unless they’re threatening Connor, or…”

“Could be that, I s’pose.” He didn’t sound convinced. “So. Gonna phone the chit, then?”

She stared reluctantly down at the screen under her thumb. “Yeah. I guess it is time for stealth observation mode one.”

“If she agrees to it, I’d say so.”

The thing was… she really didn’t want to know. But they _needed_ to know, if they weren’t going to be flying blind into this; which meant sending in an operative Angel trusted more than he did Buffy. Someone with whom he didn’t have a years-long rift and a bunch of former-relationship baggage. So she sucked in a hard breath and lifted the phone again. And dialed Faith.

‘Hey, B? What’s up?’

Same question as Connor. Which was deserved, she supposed, since she basically avoided talking to anyone anymore—except maybe Dawn—unless, you know, something was ‘up’. “Um… Have you heard from Angel lately?”

‘What, are you kidding? That guy barely knows how to use a phone that doesn’t plug into the wall. He so needs to get with the now. I’d have to call him to get anything out of him; and even then, if I didn’t catch him right then, I’d never hear back. I swear; I’m pretty sure he still hasn’t figured out how to check his voicemail.’

/Um, okay./ “He called me back, once.”

‘Well, it’s _you_ , B. He’d call you back if he was sinking in quicksand.’

/ _Really_ not so much lately./

‘Also, that was probably back when he still had his old phone. He just got the hang of it, and then they started coming out with these new kinds, and I think it messed him all up again.’

Buffy really wished she believed it was just that. “He isn’t answering any of my calls, or calling me back. And Connor says he’s barely there anymore. And that he’s avoiding Illyria.”

Her short list of evidence seemed to have knocked all the wind out of her sister-Slayer’s sails. ‘You think he got a happy and went no-soul again?’ Her voice was tight as she said it. 

/I wish it was something that straightforward. And how bad is it that I can actually _wish_ for Angelus to make a reappearance?/ Avoiding Spike’s frowning eyes, she shook her head. Not that Faith could see her or anything. “Honestly? Not really. I think this is… something maybe worse.”

Another pause. ‘Okay, B, gotta hand it to you. Now you’re really starting to worry me.’ There came the sound of rustling, as if Faith was shoving something out of the way to sit down. ‘You want me to run down, poke my head in the door, sniff around?’

“I mean… you know him. I don’t want to get in the way if you have something going on, but this feels major. So, you know, if you’re willing…”

‘Hey, no. It’s cool. I can never repay what I owe that guy. I’ll go now. It’s just…’ Another shifting noise. ‘What’s the sitch, B?’

The flat-out request for further information was a turning point. And yet… if she prejudiced Faith, got her seeing things that weren’t there… 

They really needed an unbiased report. ‘Not sure yet. Just… let me know how he’s acting? If he’s… normal?’

When Faith’s voice came back it was tight, the slight openness and ease vanished. ‘Yeah, no problem.’ Casual, light… and superficial. 

Damn. 

And then the door cracked, one more time. ‘Might be easier to know what to look for if you fill me in.’

Buffy folded. It wasn’t quite old suspicion, but it wouldn’t probably go a long way in rebuilding what little remained of the Faith-Buffy trust-arc if she didn’t at least offer. “Okay. Bear in mind that this could all be nothing. And… it’s kind of a long story…” 

‘Hey, I’ve got time.’

Faith was appropriately blown away by her rundown of the events in the former Sunnydale… and equally floored by even the possibility that Angel might be involved. ‘No, that’s crap. He’d only do something like that if he was…’ Her voice hardened with certainty. ‘No, not even then.’

“I know, that’s what me and Spike both thought. But we don’t know how else to explain it.” She met Spike’s eyes briefly in the afternoon light. “You can’t fool someone in the same bloodline. You can’t fake sire-scent. Spike’s not making this up. Which means he was there, and we need an explanation.’

‘Oh, I’ll figure it out.’ The rustle this time was sharp, filled with furious energy. ‘Not dissin’ your guy, B. If he smelled Angel in that shithole, he was there. I’m just saying, if he’s up to something nuts like that, there’s gotta be a reason.’ Faith was all Slayer as she announced her intentions to the world. ‘And I’m gonna find out why.’

“Thanks, Faith.”

‘You know it. Hit you back in a few days.’

Buffy stared at the phone again for a while after Faith ended the call, shaken at the wheels she had just set into motion. She felt like Alice in Wonderland or something; shrinking and getting bigger and shrinking once more… 

It was a frighteningly familiar feeling; and one she had hoped never to have to experience again. That sense that the world was about to crash in at her feet, fall apart all around her. /It’s like I can smell apocalypses now. God; do I have a sixth sense about them after nine or whatever?/ It would make sense. Like a handy Slayer instinct, or…

“Now there’s a bint who isn’t about to lay down and take no for an answer, or ignore a friend in trouble. Sounds ready to take names, right enough.” Spike sounded unwillingly admiring… and a little darkly amused. “‘Minds me of someone else; at least when it comes to that.”

Buffy let the ‘take no for an answer’ part slide off. She was still strangely outside of herself. “Is this insane, Spike?”

The call for a closer consultation brought him in to crouch before her. Cool hands removed the phone from her palms and took hers between them. “Yeah, it is,” he answered softly, but his eyes when he looked up into hers were steady as ever, and full of conviction. “Unfortunately, that never seems to stop this shite from happening.” He freed one hand to cup her cheek, and she leaned in automatically, closing her eyes. “But we’ll figure it out, yeah? One step at a time.”

She shivered, aware that this? /Without you, knowing this… I’d just get even harder. God, without you…/ “I love you,” she whispered, and opened her eyes earnestly on his. “So much. Please know that? I just… really love you. You’re in my heart. You always have been. You always will be.”

“Well, a’ course I am,” he answered with a slow, tiny smile that told her she was being a dope. “‘S where I live, after all. Can’t go anywhere else.”

He had a point. 

/As long as you’re in my heart, holding it together, everything will be alright./

/It _has_ to be./

***

‘B, I don’t know what the hell our boy is up to, but it sure the hell isn’t your standard shit. He’s still all souled up, but he’s acting wicked strange for sure.’ There was a short pause over the line; one in which Buffy almost thought Faith sounded… hesitant? ‘I could almost swear he’s hittin’ it with someone, he’s acting so weird, but you’d think if that was the case he’d be coming back lookin’ a little more relaxed. You know, if he was managing to get his rocks off without turning into the fang-faced deathmaster. But instead every time he sneaks off he just comes back all tense and keyed up… but at the same time he acts like he’s master of the universe…’ 

Buffy closed her eyes, hand shaking on the phone.

‘…But weirdly ashamed at the same time. Which is why at first I thought it was a sex thing. Except, you know… no reason to be weirded out about the sex thing around me. It’s not like I’m boning him, so he shouldn’t be all squirrely about it around me, right, unless he’s going down the no-curse lane. But if it’s what you two were sayin’…’

“Has he told you to leave?” The words, as they exited Buffy’s mouth, came at a harsh whisper.

‘Oh, you know. Not in so many words, but he’s made it pretty clear that now’s not the best time to chill for old times’ sake. He’s tried to hustle me out, yeah. He’s definitely up to something, that’s for sure.’ A short, fraught silence, then, ‘God, I just… I just really wanna punch him, B, you know? How could he _do_ this? Like, be involved in something like this, that’d hurt us? I mean, it just doesn’t make _sense!_ ’

Buffy could picture her sister-Slayer now; dancing restlessly on the balls of her feet and jabbing with her free hand at the air, like a woman prepping for a boxing match. Honestly, Buffy felt much the same way. “How long is he gone, each time?” she heard herself ask it, lips numb.

‘Sometimes just half the day. Sometimes a couple days. Always heading north, though I can’t follow too close, or he’d sense me, so I always lose him before I can know for sure that’s where he’s headed. I tried to beat him there once, but he just vanished once he got past Montecito. So, I mean, there’s no proof, but it gives me a wicked bad vibe, losin’ him like that.’ Faith’s voice tightened in frustration. ‘Like, okay. I never see him go into that place you told me about. It’s silent as a damn cemetery. But like the kid said, he never goes around the Blue Bitch anymore. Totally avoids her.’

/God, oh God…/ If there was some sort of spell on Drextalcorp, like Wil seemed to think, and Angel had the key to it, could synch up to it in time, then of course he too would vanish into whatever time-stream… “Okay. Okay. Thank you so much, Faith.”

‘What are we gonna do about it, B? Confront him? I’ll hold him down while you whale on his ass. I’m willing to wait till you get over here.’

Buffy really got that. The sense of betrayal. The rage it engendered, though for her it really just lent itself, at this point, to a sort of numb exhaustion. She fought to draw energy from the cool, strong grip Spike had at her shoulders; a slow, occasional knead just to let her know he was there if she were to ask, while he listened. He had his own feelings about all this, was willing to share if she required any fire of him, but right now he was keeping his personal reactions deeply self-contained. 

Pulling in a hard breath, Buffy nodded. It was time. And she didn’t want this. /I don’t want to do this. But we have to. Have to go to phase two./ “I need to tell Giles first. I was waiting on this last puzzle-piece before I let him know how serious it was, so maybe he’d believe me, how important it is that I do… what I’ve been doing. What Spike and I are already doing.”

Faith assimilated that for a moment before, with a rustle, she moved to, Buffy surmised, take a seat. ‘Okay, B; lay it on me. What’s the plan?’

/Well, if I can’t get Faith’s buy-in, I’m not gonna get anyone’s, so here goes./ “Okay, so don’t freak, but… Spike and I have been kind of testing the waters with the demon community. With the ones who are willing to cooperate. Live peacefully. To see if, you know, we could try to create a sort of brave new world, where maybe we can stop fighting a war we all inherited, since according to Spike, their gods aren’t coming back to take over anytime soon. They’re all buried in these magicked casket-things in a place called the Deeper Well up in England. That’s how Illyria escaped in the first place; some idiot worshiper of hers set her free. But as long as we can avoid that with the rest of ‘em, most demons are basically like us; hybrids who got made to fight a war for someone else. Like the vamps; they got invented by guys who were mad they got squeezed out, and now they’re stuck holding the bag, fighting over a planet we all share.”

Buffy was honestly less than surprised when Faith skipped a lot of shock and awe to jump to the chase. “And you think there’s room for both of us?”

Buffy held her breath for a second. “I think it’s an _us_ , Faith. I think we got taught it was an us and them thing, but I think it’s just an us. Like… a scale. Like, pure evil—and we both know plenty of humans fit in there—to just chaotic, which, samesies, to barely demonic at all, like Clem… You didn’t really meet Clem, but you couldn’t pay him to hurt anyone, except he, like, ate the occasional kitten. You know, basically neutral. All the way down to, you know…” She waved her hand around, searching for an example.

“Glinda,” Spike suggested. “Or Fred.”

“Tara. You remember Tara? Or, like… you probably knew Fred…”

“Hell. That chick was so sweet she made my teeth hurt. Sucks bad that she died. I mean, not my type, you know? But she didn’t deserve anything bad happening to her ever. I have issues looking at the Blue Bitch ‘cause of it.”

“Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. And even Illyria… she’s basically more… chaos than evil at this point, because her version of evil came from just having so much power at one point that she didn’t give a crap about the little guy, instead of wanting to _hurt_ people. There’re just… so many levels. It’s just… _people_. And we’ve been sharing this planet for eons. The only time it becomes an actual issue is when the truly evil ones get into it with everyone else; and then they cause problems for the neutral, assimilate-y ones and stuff just as much as for the humans. Because the rest of ‘em have a vested interest in keeping the place running just like we do.”

‘‘Cause we all live here.’

“Yeah.” Faith was going to get it sooner than anyone, really, with what she’d seen and done. “I mean, I don’t want to kill every demon ever, do you? What would a world without demons be like?”

‘Hell. I gotta admit, that sounds wicked boring.’

“Majorly. And a lot of us even have complimentary goals. Interconnected economies, stuff like that, if we could just smooth the paths by not having all this constant violent interaction to mess things up by assuming the worst of each other all the time. So if we don’t always just go to kill-first…”

‘B, you’re talking about a lot more than just changing the curriculum. Which, I mean, I’m down. But getting everyone else on board... Some of the old guard have serious sticks up their asses when it comes to this shit. And the wannabes aren’t, you know, discerning. The ‘kill first, ask questions later’ method works for them because they don’t have the mad skills we have.’

/Amen on both counts./ “I know.” There were going to be plenty of kinks to work out.

‘And if we’re all happy allies, who do we get to slay? Because I gotta tell ya, sis; the idea of going through my life without any action is just… Ngggh.’

Buffy could picture the frustrated uppercut that accompanied that noise. Faith was all sex when it came to slaying, and, well… /I feel you, girl./ “You and I both know they’re not all gonna turn into puppies when we join hands. I’m not dumb. The zealots aren’t gonna join, because they won’t believe the ‘god isn’t coming back’ part. They’re just gonna keep sacrificing babies to make it happen; but the guys who’re tired of being run by them might even join in with us just to get out from under their thumbs, ‘cause they’re tired of being ruled by religious elites and being forced to do stuff that makes ‘em live underground and get a bad rep, you know?”

‘So, there’s still gonna be big fat guys in bathtubs to electrocute, and underground dragons and stuff, is what you’re saying.’

“And there’ll always be idiot fledges about to offer a nice rough and tumble,” Spike pointed out from behind Buffy. “Never run out of orphaned vampires with no home-training. At least, not on the hellmouths.”

‘Well, thank God for that.’

Buffy smiled inwardly at her guy’s helpful, de-stressing commentary. “But aside from the brainless baby vamps, the seriously abused hybrids are obviously gonna join up. They’re tired of being pushed around and treated like crap by the more pure types, and they’re half-assimilated already. Like the Brachens and Movics and Listers. And the Feravas… they’re big into trade. The Loose-Skins do a whole lot of work in the hospitality and medical fields without anyone even knowing it; a lot of cooks and orderlies and stuff. And there are tons of others where, like the new book we put out says, a lot of the info is totally medieval and doesn’t fit what’s actually happening today. And we’d know that if we just _talked_ to them instead of swinging first. But they swing first because we swing first… So I’ve assimilated. Spike and I have talked. And now, with this…”

‘You think if we can get more part-demons on our side, we can intimidate these Army fuckwads into backing down.’

Buffy sighed. “I’ve been on both sides of an anti-tank grenade-launcher. I’d rather not play with those toys again if we can avoid it.”

‘Shit, B.’

It was bleak, but it was real. “The Slayers are in trouble, Faith. You weren’t there when we faced down those Scourge bastards, but they almost took us out at the HQ with a few rifles. And you and I both know if it comes to fighting a bunch of modern hardware like helicopters and sonic guns and crap, we’re gonna go down… and so is the whole world we’re a part of.” No answer from the other end of the line… which was acknowledgment, really. “And just like with the Scourge, we have a common enemy, now. Same goals, even; ‘cause they wanna take out all of us. Our traditional enemies _and_ us, which puts us all on the same side. We need to make them realize it, and we need to make our people realize it.” /Which… so did the Initiative, though I didn’t realize it yet back then./ “This is the Initiative 2.0, except now they’re afraid of _us_ , too. They’re coming after _us_. If we don’t stop this, the next step is…” She shivered, felt Spike’s hand still on her back. Remembered his haunted eyes. “Probably concentration camps.”

A short, shocked silence. ‘You’re shitting me.’

“I wish I didn’t believe it, Faith, but ‘monsters’ like us don’t really exist, right? So who’d care? And if anyone found out… it’d be a lot easier to convince the world it’s a good idea when it’s ‘monsters’, right? They managed to do it, more than once, with humans. And they’ve perfected the art. Once you have everyone out of sight, and enough firepower, it’s lights out.”

‘Fuuuck… Oh, fuck no, B. If you really think they’re gonna…’ Faith’s voice went hard. ‘Prison’s one thing. I’m not gonna let anyone… No; fuck that. Seriously. I’ll go down with my teeth in someone like a vamp before I’ll lay down for that shit.’

/You and me both, girlfriend./ “I’m glad to hear it, Faith, because we need you to help us convince everyone. They’re gonna feel your power. You have almost as much as I hold, have experience they can’t even imagine, and they know it. The girls will listen.” Buffy felt Spike’s hand on her shoulder, nodded. “The things they were starting to do in the Initiative… They weren’t just trying to wipe out the supernatural world. They were trying to harness us for their own goals while they were at it. They might find a way to use the magicks inherent in some demons—or some humans—like Willow. She could power a damn space station if they hurt her, pissed her off enough. I mean, who knows, you know?”

‘Holy hell, B, how do you even _think_ of this shit?’

“I’ve had time. And Spike’s seen a lot in this world; a lot of what humans can do. I don’t question anything anymore, after what I’ve seen.” She felt her voice harden. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not about to let it happen. I’ll throw in with the world I know over those bastards, any day.”

‘I’m not as worried about that part as I am about…’ A short silence. ‘If it comes down to a fight you know I’m in. It’s just… Fuck. This thing really has you rattled.’ Faith sounded no less so. ‘Hell, B; you really think Angel would…’

/Ah./ That part really rattled Buffy, as well. It was the one weak point in her entire chain of surmises. But. “I think Angel hates himself. Hates his demon. He got a chance to be without it for a while in Hell-A, and I think he wants that again. Especially since I know he’s seen his future; seen what happens if he gets the Shanshu in the way he thought he would; by continuing to play the game the Senior Partners and the Powers have it set up for him, as this long-term chess-piece. I think he’d do anything to just get rid of it; to stop being a pawn, and never have to face the world he saw in his vision. To get rid of all demons and just be free of his destiny.” It hurt to consider it, but… “So yeah. Maybe, if they showed him a way out, told him the world would be better…” She shook her head grimly. “Maybe they convinced him somehow; told him the people closest to him would come out of it safe or something. Or that we could be ‘undemoned’. Maybe he even thinks he’s doing us a favor; because to him, he’d think it was.”

A short, weighted pause. ‘Oh, man, you’re right. That would so be something he’d think. Like he was totally doing us a solid. Making us ‘human again’…’

/It would. Babies and puppies and picket fences… all totally against our will./ “Who knows. All I know is, if that’s the case, he’s been completely twisted up, because this is what we _are_. This is how we’re made, and we’re nothing like vampires. With vamps, they’ve been a part of each other for so long that even when they lose the demon, they still think the same way, act the same way. I mean, it would suck, because they’d lose all the perks, lose a part of their being…” Buffy felt Spike’s hands tighten on her shoulders in a fierce, uncompromising grip, made entirely of existential terror, as much or more for her as for himself. “But it doesn’t work that way for us. We’re too… meshy. We’re, like… animated or something by the Line. To strip a Slayer of her demon-essence…” She felt the bleakness settle in her bones. “I’m pretty sure it would kill us.” 

‘Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ … You think that’s his contribution? You think he’s trying to help them… strip us of our powers? Make us all human again if they’re fighting us and they’re not winning? Like he’s got some spell, or…’

“It’s the only thing I can think of, since Connor doesn’t sound like he’s in any danger. That’s the only other thing I can think of that would make him act like this.” Buffy held her breath for a sec. “I just don’t know how Giles is gonna react.”

Another silence, then… ‘Hell. You’re gonna just come out and tell the G-man this is your plan? That you’re about to start a revolution? Against everything he’s ever believed in?’

“Basically, yeah.” The thought utterly terrified her. But the fact was… Giles couldn’t stop her, either way. At worst what might happen was a civil war.

‘Well, if you want a blowout, you’re gonna get one.’

She hated to admit it, but Faith was probably right. “Yeah, probably,” she acknowledged. “But it’s the only thing I can see working. Look. I don’t know where you stand on this ‘convince Giles, convince the Slayers’ gig… and I’m not asking you to take sides. You’re a free agent, but I thought you deserved the heads-up. Especially since… we didn’t warn you, you know. Before. With The First, and the Bringers.”

‘I… really appreciate that, B.’ Something that might have been a note of admiring amusement entered Faith’s tones then. ‘You’re really gunnin’ for the whole “this time Buffy’s the bad one” thing, huh?’

Buffy felt a faint smile touch her lips. “Not really. It’s just kinda the way things are turning out.”

‘Damn, I should’ve paid more attention when your guy told me you were getting your naughty on. I’m impressed, girl. You might give me a run for my money.’

She sounded more than impressed. She sounded worried. “Wow. I never thought I’d ever freak _you_ out, Faith.”

The answer was immediate. ‘Freak me out, no. But… I need some time to think.’

/About joining up. Helping to lead the charge. About doing anything more than just surviving./ Buffy got that. And it made perfect sense, considering the fine line Faith herself had walked a long time ago. Or, really, less walked than plunged right over. “I get that. I’m not asking you for anything.” It probably bore repeating. 

‘I get it. Hey. I’ll talk to you later. Let you know if I hear anything else through the grapevine. Keep my ears open if I hear anything interesting shaking down from this side.’

It was a generous offer, considering. “Thank you, Faith. You take care of yourself.”

‘You too, B.’

As the call ended, Buffy found herself staring into the middle distance between their living room and the rolling waves of the Mediterranean without seeing much of anything in the familiar scenery. After some indeterminate passage of time, Spike’s rumble broke the silence. “Chit’s gonna have a hard road of it, deciding where to fall. From what I understand of her, were I her, this’ll be the hell of a personal test of wills. Maybe bring up a load of shite she might never have wanted to think about again. Might even brass her right off, wonderin’ why it’s alright for you to cross a line she couldn’t without fallin’ in too deep, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Buffy whispered, and sighed. Let herself lean back into kneading fingers. “Why is everything so crazy?”

Spike’s lips were cool, dry, and reassuring on her forehead. “Because time is a circle, not a line, and everything we have ever done comes ‘round to haunt us again until we resolve it.”

/Um, okay./ “Is that some kind of Zen thing or something?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s lame.”

He just chuckled as he worked her shoulders.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
And so it goes... 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters. It starts out emotionally painful, to set up later plotty tensions... and ends in a catharsis that is a VERY LONG TIME COMING between our two babies, and resolves something from S6 that has needed resolving for a long damn time, and I just love how it came out. So, hopefully y'all like it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

_  
“This is an inevitable and easily recognizable stage in every revolutionary movement: reformers must expect to be disowned by those who are only too happy to enjoy what has been won for them.”_

* * *

“So… I’m just gonna do it.”

“I believe in you, Love.”

Buffy rolled her eyes at her vampire. He replied with a tongue-tapping grin and nodded with his chin toward the phone in her hands. “What’s the worst that can happen? He disowns you, yeah? And we go on our merry way and do exactly what we planned to do anyway, innit? Only thing we lose is…”

“All the new respect I’ve gained from him since he came by for that visit and looked at me like I’m this… adult he can trust to live my own life, and all the respect he gives you now because he thinks maybe you might even be a vaguely good influence on my life…”

Spike snorted scathingly at that one. “He’s just glad we haven’t killed each other yet. And that I didn’t poison him with the drink. Any respect on offer was given strictly to you, pet.” He sobered slightly, and his hand cupped one of hers, pulled it in to settle it between his palms. “Understand, don’t I? What you stand to lose. It’s ephemeral, that feeling, with him. Never really fully treated you like you were your own woman. And part of you never wanted it. Wanted him to hold you safe like a dad ought. But you earned bein’ told you’re your own woman when he pissed off the way he did, so if he’s gonna give you both like he did a few weeks back… That’s precious as hell.”

She nodded, looking down at their entangled fingers. “Yeah.”

“Can understand your not wanting to lose that. Lose his good opinion.” He didn’t speak the necessary codicil.

“But I’m going to have to risk it.” Might as well say it for him. “He’s gonna find out anyway, from someone, the way we’re going.” She heaved a heavy sigh and dragged the phone back up with her free hand. “Guess it’s better coming from me.”

“I love you. ‘F it helps at all.”

Her eyes met his. Lost themselves, for just a moment, in endless blue depths. Azure or amber, she wished sometimes she could just stay there forever, avoid the world. But that was cheating. “You know it does,” she told her vampire quietly, and dialed.

Giles answered on the second ring. ‘Buffy, this is a pleasant surprise. Is there something you need, or…’

Buffy fought to keep her voice even. “Um, well, there’s something we need to _tell_ you.”

‘Oh good Lord. Let me get to my desk and have a seat. Alright. What’s wrong, then?’

/God, where to start?/ “Okay, so… there was more to what happened in Sunnydale than we told you, for obvious reasons. Did Wil and Xander tell you any more than you heard when you… came here?”

Giles’ voice went tense. ‘The barest outlines. That they were under attack by some animated corpses in Highland kit when Spike called Willow to your side. That Amy had Warren Mears reanimated and he tortured Willow while she was there, and she had to use you as a vessel for the magicks until she was freed...’

Buffy held her breath for a moment.

‘Which I’d rather thing is something you might have mentioned to me, at least in passing, Buffy,’ he went on in exasperated, chiding tones. ‘That Warren was finally killed in the fight, this time for certain, and that you wended your way through a significant facility staffed by any number of military personnel before you came to a place where she could portal you out…’

Wil had said nothing to Giles, then, about Buffy having essentially sicced Spike on Warren. Nice of her. Though, probably she kind of thought these days that sort of thing was between Buffy and Spike, or maybe Buffy and Giles, and none of her damn business as long as Spike continued to mind his. “Anything else?” she inquired calmly, while her mate watched her with a knowing eye for her short uptick in blood-pressure. /Oh, shut up, William. It would just sidetrack the whole conversation if Giles went off on one of those, ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing with him, he’s still dangerous’ rants. I don’t have the time./

‘Is there more to know?’ Giles asked quietly.

Well, then. It sounded like the former Scoobies really had left it all up to her. “Yeah. There is. Two things, actually. One, the military isn’t in Sunnydale just to research the remains of our favorite hellmouth or anything like that, and Amy and Warren weren’t acting on their own when they came after us, specifically. The, um, guys Wil and Xan found up near HQ were actually watching them, and they’re part of a secret Government group called ‘Twilight’ that’s dedicated to bringing down the Slayer Organization…”

‘Good Lord! Buffy, what in blazes…’

It was a hell of a bomb to drop, she knew; especially after sitting on it for this long, and he might be mad at her enough just for that. But there was more, and she had to get it all out at once if she was going to make the most impact. “Because they’re scared of us. They have all the records the Initiative took of how I fought. All of Maggie Walsh’s notes. Even Riley’s testimony.” /Which was apparently a little more thorough than I thought it ever would be./ That realization still burned. “Now that there are so many of us, and we’ve done dumb things like ‘borrow’ insured money, and take donations from sources they don’t trust to bolster the leftover Council coffers, they’re a little scared of us, because we’re a power they can’t control. And the way I acted when everything went down in the Initiative complex—to their eyes, siding with the demons against them—probably didn’t make them feel any better about Slayers…”

‘Oh dear God…’

“There’s more, if you’re ready to hear it.”

A short silence, then, ‘Well, I’m already long since sitting down, so you might as well get on with it.’

“They have an ally. One we would never have expected in a million years.” She paused for a brief second, eyes locking with Spike’s. Felt his fingers tighten on hers, lock in deep into her palm, their burn scars becoming one. “When we were in their main planning room or whatever, and Wil was working the mojo to portal us out, Spike smelled Angel in there.”

The silence on the other end of the line was profound. 

“I know, it’s hard to believe…”

‘You must be joking.’

Buffy shook her head, perfectly aware of the levels of denial her Watcher must be experiencing right now. He had never liked her ex-vampire, probably hated him on some level, and yes. During the whole CEO-of-Wolfram-and-Hart period they had seriously questioned his morals, maybe even his sanity… but since then they had all pretty much come back around to the idea that he was at the very least a powerful ally, one who could swing all of LA to their side if necessary. He had notoriety, a solid team; he was a heavy-hitter in the do-gooder game. 

To have him as an enemy again was… well. Not at all a pleasant prospect. “I wasn’t a fan either, obviously, but if there’s one thing Spike knows, it’s Angel’s scent.”

“Sod was all over that room,” Spike put in, loudly enough to be heard by their communicant.

‘W… W… Well, that’s just balderdash,’ Giles put in loudly. ‘Unless he’s gone round the twist again…’

“No reason for Angelus to throw in with the military. It’s really not his speed, Giles; even to come after me. And he doesn’t give a damn about the other Slayers.” She twitched her hand in her mate’s with a faint smile. “That was Spike’s thing, remember? Not his.”

‘But this is simply preposterous! He’s no reason to be there! He must have been a captive, or…’

“I’ve smelled Angel scared. Smelled him uncertain. Tell you one scent I know better than any other save Buffy’s, and that’s Angel in charge of a room.”

Another stunned silence from the phone. ‘Are you certain?’

“The vamp’s my nest-sire, Rupert.”

A short, startled silence from the other end of the line, then, ‘Surely that would have been Darla, wouldn’t it? She was the eldest…’

Spike rolled his eyes at the digression. Giles, ever the Watcher, was taking refuge in logical discourse to avoid the current, wildly uncomfortable conundrum. “Age or lineage isn’t always the deciding factor. That old bent bitch didn’t want the responsibility. She liked making Angelus do all the work of managing us, all the while knowing she could lead him around by his cock. And if that were ever to fail—not that it ever did. Bloody peas in a sociopathic pod, those two—she could always use a sire-command on the git, have all the rest of us in line under him like little tin soldiers. He told me a while back that the only time he was ever able to break free of her before she was reborn and got herself a new demon he didn’t have to obey was when he got the soul. Bunged things up a bit so’s he was able to resist.” 

Unfathomable, indigo eyes jerked briefly to meet Buffy’s. “Told him to eat a baby once, to prove he loved her and was still one of us, all that rot. He grabbed up his shiny new soul and scarpered with the baby in tow before she could stop him. Just barely managed it, too. She was still too strong for him.” 

/Oh, _man_ …/ Sire-commands were the literal _worst_.

Spike shrugged as he redirected his attention to the phone in her hand. “Angelus ran the nest, Rupes. Darla ran Angelus. I know the scent of Angel runnin’ the show, because he was doin’ it again in LA, just like he always did. Only this time there was no bent bitch in sight; just him doin’ things like he always did. And any road, stop changing the subject, Watcher. You’re avoiding the point.”

Giles’ voice was shaking as he answered. ‘You should have told me, Buffy.’

Buffy exhaled, feeling the weight of days, weeks in the wilderness landing on her all of a sudden. It had been like feeling around in the dark. “I’m sorry. I figured, with all the Ethan stuff, you had enough on your plate. And the Angel stuff… I wanted to confirm it as much as possible before I told you. So we asked Faith to head down there and tail him for a while. And… basically, he’s been going up there a lot, but kind of vanishing around Montecito. Which makes sense, if what Wil says is true and they have their headquarters on some kind of alternate time-band thing…”

‘Oh, good Lord…’

“Anyway, he’s been avoiding Illyria, too, which is a really good tell that he has something to hide…”

‘I beg your pardon?’

“The Smurf can damn near read a person’s mind, innit? Empathy an’ the lot. Comes of bein’ an Old One could control all her subjects back in the day.”

‘Oh, yes, quite; I can see how that would be…’ Giles trailed off, cleared his throat. ‘My God; why on Earth would Angel, of all _people_ , involve himself in some scheme to come after your Slayers? It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever…’

“We, um, think maybe it’s because he hates his own demon so much that he thinks we’ll all be better off if we can be purged of ours, too. If we can all be human again.” 

It was a blunt throwing down of the gauntlet, and she could feel Giles cringing at her word-use, her flat self-classification as supernatural, otherworldly; non-human. /Only human-ish. On the days when the weather is clear./ She felt herself smile inwardly, aware that Spike would tell her she had just ‘put a cat among the pigeons’. Despite the tension she could feel him grinning proudly at her, though she didn’t meet his gaze. 

The thing was, it had needed to be said, whether Giles ever acknowledged it or not. It was, after all, the basis of their entire following argument; both because it was true… and because the military knew it.

After a moment there came an exasperated exhale from her old Watcher, and then, ‘Do you honestly believe Angel is going to join in with a weak, junkie witch like Amy Madison and the military to try to… strip the Slayers of their… supernatural assistance, when he knows the world we’re up against? He fights in that same world daily! And why on Earth would this ‘Twilight’ group wish to strip the Slayers of your powers if they’re worried about demons the way the Initiative was? You’ll be fighting on the same side, after all…

/You’re just gonna walk right past it, huh?/ “Because to the military, we’re just as much demons, and they don’t get that we were bred to protect humanity. They’ll let us kill each other off, and then they’ll kill us off; the ones of us that are left, now they have the firepower to do it. They heard what happened with the Scourge. Now they know we’re armoring up, picking up firepower, witches, all that. I’m sure it scares them.” Buffy pulled in a sharp breath, fortifying herself. “Angel… He probably thinks he’s doing us a favor; that or someone’s threatening Connor. That’s the only other reason I can see that he’d do this. Or he buys into some plan they have to rid the world of the worst demons. But here’s the problem. These Twilight guys are just as bad as the Initiative were. They won’t ever acknowledge that they don’t know anything, or that there’s any gray area. That there are good demons around; and I’m not just talking about Slayers…”

‘Buffy, for God’s sake, will you please stop referring to yourself and the others as…’

/No./ “We’re part demon, Giles. Stop pussyfooting around it and let’s move on.” She wasn’t going to have this discussion. Not right now. “We know it and, worse, _they_ know it. Therein lies the problem, right?”

Silence from her former Watcher. 

“Much much worse, they have the tanks, the aircraft, the big guns. And, the world doesn’t know about us. Any of us. And even if they did, they’d applaud anyone putting ‘the monsters’ in cages, locking us away somewhere out of sight, out of mind…”

‘Buffy…’

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be part of any anti-demon holocaust because some military goons decided to do the Initiative thing on a bigger scale. And considering how globalized things are these days, I have serious doubts it’s just the US that’s in on this at this point…”

‘You have got to be joking.’

Buffy wasn’t going to let up. “Spike saw concentration camps firsthand, Giles. Not in my life plan. Not for me, not for my girls; not for some harmless Loose-Skinned family or what’s left of the Brachens. Not even for the Ferava or the Grachalan, as long as they mind their own business… and heck. I’ve met some vamps around here who are pretty good at behaving themselves moderately well, here off of the hellmouth…”

“Good clean living,” Spike muttered. “Low-profile…”

‘Buffy, are you honestly saying…’

“I’m not saying I think every demon is harmless, or that these guys are wrong in wanting to fight the nesters and the big nasties, and the ones who come out swinging and spitting burning, poisonous venom. And for sure the ones who are starting next Tuesday’s apocalypse obviously need attention. But that for sure doesn’t mean we _all_ need to be wiped out.” If it convinced her father-figure, she would for damn sure keep leaning on that ‘we’. “And I’ll stand up next to the ones who want to live in peace against this Twilight bunch if it means we have the numbers to make a stand and make sure both the Slayers and the demon world survives this thing.” 

And there it was. Her plan, right out in the open. She was going to overthrow the whole system to which he had dedicated his entire life in order to fight this one threat. 

In that instant, she knew he would rebel. Her impeccable logic wouldn’t matter. She had already lost him.

But he had to know. What they were up against. What she planned to do about it. 

All of it.

She was unsurprised when his tones went frigid in response. ‘And you are… committed to this course of action?’

Yep. There it was. The disappointment. Not even that. The fear-regret-distance. Again. After they had finally patched things up. And it hurt. God, it hurt. But. It had to be done, for the sake of the Slayers; even the world. “We’re already making allies. Really good inroads in the local demon community.” She wouldn’t tell him yet the deal she was making, for all of them. “Hopefully it’ll spread further than southern Spain, if it takes.” Dead silence. “Giles. I know how insane this must sound to you…”

‘Actually, you really don’t.’

/Oh, dammit./ Fighting not to hyperventilate, to stay calm and collected, she kept trying. Not because she thought it would work, but because they _needed_ him, _and_ his people. “…But the thing is… I was raised in the middle of a war. So were you. And I don’t know what that as like for you. How you were… shaped in it. But I know how _I_ was. And I’m tired of being used as a weapon, by people who started this thing during… circumstances that were so different a zillion years ago that they might not even _apply_ anymore…”

‘Buffy, some things really _do_ still apply!’ She heard him stop himself as well, take some slow, calming breaths. When he came back in he was a little steadier, a little more measured. Definitely quieter. ‘I can understand your resentment. I truly do. But you cannot turn your back on your sacred Calling, just because you are angry that you were made a tool by men who no longer exist! You cannot… join _hands_ with the enemy…’

Hands so deeply entwined with hers that they were, in effect, one, Spike snorted slightly, his cool breath wafting over her face with the familiar scents of menthol and tobacco, _solomillo_ —his dinner, her breakfast—and the faintest hints of whiskey and blood. Ibid. 

/I’ve been joining hands with the enemy for basically the entire time I’ve been a damn Slayer, you dope. I’ve had to learn whole new definitions for _everything_ because of it!/ Giles was so out of touch sometimes it was nuts. But she had to keep her cool. “Giles, I’m trying to step outside that whole mindset of ‘enemy’. That’s what I’m trying to get through to you. I’m trying to _end the war_.”

There was a vast, roaring silence from the other end of the line, and then, ‘Buffy, what you’re trying to do is an impossibility.’

She felt that little smile come back to touch her lips. Reached out blindly with the link, felt her mate move to where she needed him, come around to slide into the seat behind her so that she could lean back, into him, without the need for speech. “It worked for Spike.”

‘Oh, bloody… Buffy, that was an entirely other situation. You cannot expect all these other demonic entities to… To go tame for reasons that have nothing to do with… I mean, it’s not as if you’re going to…’

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Giles. They all have their own reasons for joining up. Cold, hard math. Trading up for better protection, or getting out from under the thumb of some baddie who’s been making their lives horrible for millennia. A better in into human-demon commerce. Just generally more peaceable interactions between their world and ours. Better relations with the sheriffs…”

‘The Slayers.’

“Yes! And you don’t even know, but Spike’s explained it to me; most of those messed up religious ceremonies aren’t being done by real believers. They’re being done by scared idiots who would rather be couch-surfing and watching a Barca match…” She heard the profound, startled silence from the other end of the line, and /Yes, Giles, I understand a little more about soccer, now/ “…Than down in some cave somewhere risking exposure to sacrifice babies. None of them really believe their Old One’s coming back anymore, either. But if they have some heavy breathing down their necks, they’re gonna do it, just to save their own butts. The heavies are on us still… but we need to start hitting the right guys; the ones that are a problem for both worlds, instead of continually going to war against a bunch of flunkies who won’t actually make an impact in the end.”

‘Listen. That all sounds very pat, but how do you know that this information…’

“Because I’ve seen it. It’s not just coming from Spike, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve been living in a demon-community—one _not_ on a hellmouth—for almost nine months. I’ve been submerged in it. I’m a _part_ of it. I’m _trusted_. And I’ve learned more in that period than your Watchers probably learned in _decades_ by recording things from the outside, based off a bunch of assumptions and outdated details all bottom-up.”

‘Buffy…’

“The Council library burned, Giles. Maybe that was for a good reason. I think we need to start fresh.” She was still slightly regretful that Giles’ own personal library had survived, all carefully packed away in his place in England. That circumstance, once seen as a victory for their side, might actually shoot them in the foot now. Not that she was hating on information on principle or anything. She'd been with a scholar for long enough to know how sacred the written word was and all that, and god knew how often Giles' books had saved her butt as a youthful and inexperienced Slayer. They had definitely lost a lot of good with the bad 411, but... /How much of that info was prejudiced, or sort of… tilted to make the most of us? To use us?/  
  
Starting from scratch, building a new library, might not be the worst thing. Because the thought of picking through all the extant stuff and trying to separate fact from fiction and propaganda was just overwhelming.

‘Still, to join in with demonkind against _humans_ …’

Buffy leaned forward in her seat, galvanized. “An _institution_ , Giles. One that’s coming after us too. The Slayers. Like the Scourge, and just as convinced that they’re the master race and that we need to be wiped out because we’re tainted. Tell me how we’re supposed to reason with something with the might of the US Military—and maybe other world militaries—behind it, when it comes at us all extremist and says, ‘You’re just a bunch of demons and you need to be destroyed’?”

“Never was much use having a tea party and palaver with that sort, Rupes,” Spike chimed in calmly from his casual lean against the chair back. “Churchill learned that right quick.”

Giles actually stammered. ‘B…b… But, so you’re saying the appropriate response is… to join in with your natural enemy against this… institution… to fight them…’

He was so not going to let go of that whole ‘natural enemy’ schtick, was he? “They’re not our ‘natural enemy’. Not anymore. That’s what I’m trying to _say_. We have more in common with them in this situation than we have with that Institution. We _all_ live in this world, and it’s about time we learned to share it, and stopped fighting a war the Old Ones and a bunch of scared old men left us to fight, and started sharing it against a bunch of hopped up new guys with fancy weapons and a purity complex.”

She was breaking his brain. ‘Buffy, that is… You cannot simply declare the entire pattern of millennia of internecine conflict to be over because you _decree_ it so!’

“I didn’t,” she answered softly. _“They_ did. The Old Ones have been gone for so long they’re just a memory of a dream. Humans with the war machines are the Old Ones now. They’re the ones with the scary powers and the ability to wipe everyone out they don’t like and set up the world the way they like it—no more magicks, no more supernatural anything—the kind of world _Riley_ would like to live in. Is that a world you’d like this to be?” she demanded of her Watcher. “Because it’s _changed,_ Giles. The Old Ones have been asleep for so long the humans are now ascendant to the point they’ve taken over. They could take out the Old Ones in this Deeper Well place, given enough military might. I doubt even Illyria could survive a nuclear blast, or a full bombardment from a bunch of military aircraft…”

“At least they’d give her a right run for her money; even in full kit.” 

Remembering the demonic fighter-jet entities in Hell-A, Buffy silently conceded that one to Spike. 

“And considerin’ what I saw of where they had her kipping, I’d say a nice SPUD missile bombardment would do for the lot, down there, if done from both ends. Close the whole bloody shop. Not that I think that’s necessarily the worst idea. Angel knows about that one too, I’d like to mention.” 

Giles was clearly speechless at the very thought, to judge from his strangled sounds. 

Buffy took up the thread while he was still gaping over the picture Spike had painted. “This is a coup. Our world, the world we live in, the one we were made and groomed to protect and care for? Is about to come to an end. The question is, do we fight for our mutual survival, or let ourselves be destroyed? Because I think we’ve come full circle, and the humans have finally gotten what they’ve always wanted. They can win… but the problem is… we _all_ live here, and it’s not so black and white. Which makes the enemy _them_ , now. And it makes _us_ the little guy.”

‘You’re actually saying that a human victory over the demons, finally in our sight, is no victory at all. That’s…’

“Anathema? I’m a part of that world, Giles. I was made a part of it. Made _for_ it. What reason do I have to exist if they destroy it?” She ground the heel of her point into his heart. “They know that too. And they’d rather destroy us all than risk us running around with our powers with no mission. Just in case.” /Just like the Council would have done, if they’d ever been faced with this decision. And now we get to find out just how much you really absorbed all that dogma, Giles./

Clearly the Watcher had never considered what the hell the world would do with a bunch of Slayers at loose ends, if the world were suddenly rid of demons to be slain. 

Time to jump on his moment of shocked silence, while his brain cells were still sizzling. “The game’s changed. And if we can’t switch gears and fight the right people, stop fighting amongst ourselves, our world is a goner.”

Giles was having a terrible time switching said gears. ‘Buffy… what you’re saying is… It’s… It defies all…’

“Maybe I’m talking to the wrong person,” Buffy murmured quietly to her old teacher. “Maybe you’d just rather have it all gone. After all, you kind of agreed with what the Initiative was doing. Didn’t you.” A telling silence on the line. “You thought it didn’t really matter how horribly they treated the demons, as long as they got information. Even if they eviscerated them while they were alive, abused them, caged them… That the only ones who mattered were the ones we knew personally, knew had human souls—like Oz—but not the other ones. Because no human soul meant no feelings. They didn’t matter, they weren’t really people, and it didn’t matter that they probably had families to go home to, could feel pain…”

‘Buffy…’ Giles’ voice was abruptly agonized.

Buffy did not let up. “Now that I look back, I’m glad those demons all escaped and fought back. What they were doing needed to end, because what the Initiative was doing was wrong. I fought demons, yes, and it was a quick, clean kill in a fair fight. But _torture?_ They could obviously feel—whether I wanted to admit it about Spike or not—and all that? It wasn’t worth the 411. I mean, all the Initiative talk about them being ‘animals’… Tell me, Giles. If they really _were_ animals… Who even treats _animals_ that way? There are _laws_ about that; but obviously there’re no laws protecting demons, so they could get out every sick, twisted, sadistic torture fantasy they wanted down there and no one would care, because whatever. Just monsters, right?” /I _will_ drive this home, dammit./ “Are you like that? Do you want revenge on Angelus by letting this happen? For Jenny? The way I beat on Spike for months because he shares a bloodline with the guy who made losing my virginity suck so bad?”

‘Buffy, please don’t…’

Cool hands on her shoulders, soothing. Forgiving. Everything. “I’ve repented, don’t wanna be that anymore. Do you want to be that?”

When Giles came back at her, he came back shaken. ‘Look. This is not about hatred, or vengeance. It’s about truth, and reality, and…’

No. She would keep hitting him with it. “No, it's not. This is about venting anger at things they, and we, didn’t like for even _existing_. Believe me, I know. I’ve _been_ there. I did it and I watched those Initiative soldiers do it because they were mad that their job wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and they didn’t want the demons to be real; they just wanted it all to go away so they could go home and get back to a normal job. Like I used to think, before I realized I wasn’t made that way; to be normal. And I know you didn’t like Maggie Walsh…”

‘That woman was a menace! She ignored her own anti-demon ethos to use their abilities for her own benefit, and she feared your strength, your powers. She tried to hurt you… _Oh_. Oh, good Lord…’

/Now you’re getting it./ “Exactly. And I’ve learned that just like there was a fine line between the Council to the Initiative to Maggie Walsh and these guys now, this Twilight group, there’s also a fine line between me and the Initiative. It never occurred to me before recently, but if I couldn’t see demons as people with feelings either, then why should I question any of it? But I am now. More than.”

She was on her feet now, having left Spike abruptly behind to pace the floor. “There are dozens, hundreds of demon species. Thousands, maybe; and we tarred them all with the same brush. Isn’t that the expression?” Caught Spike’s approving nod. “How does that even make any sense? They all behave differently, have different needs, different reactions, different abilities, different tolerances. You and I both know that some of them can totally live alongside humans, no problem. And yeah; some can’t. But tell me this, Giles; why the heck should I fight all demons, or hate all demons, or work to ‘rid the world of demons’, or assume all demons are the same, when they clearly aren’t?”

Silence.

“‘Demon’ is probably not even the right classification, huh? It’s just some word somebody came up with for this whole group of beings from, like, a thousand different dimensions, that probably have nothing to do with each other half the time. Some guys just decided that they were all close enough to the same, like a jillion years ago, and you’re still rolling with it; this idea of a human-only world; that ‘that’s the only way we’ll ever be safe’… but don’t you get that that means no _me_ , either?” She had to get him to _see_ it, lowered her voice to a slicing weapon. “No Slayers. That that means the same thing these military guys want. Just Watchers with more firepower.”

An even more profound silence.

/Drive it home, Buffy./ “What would the Council have done with us, if we were ever successful? You know they thought of us as just tools to be destroyed if we ever stopped being useful or put a foot out of line.”

The silence turned audibly pained.

He wasn’t going to admit his mental kinship to the people, the institutions preparing to wipe her and her people out; people he had sworn and dedicated his life to rear and protect. “Alright. If you want to play it the way you seem to want to… Even if these jerks wiped us all out here, what’s to stop another hellmouth from opening up and spitting out a bunch of new ‘demons’ next week from some other dimension? We know what they don’t; that they could never destroy every gateway and hellmouth and portal between this dimension and all the other demon worlds. And they’d do it with every Slayer and good demon gone, so no one’s around with any knowledge to help them fight the next wave, or protect humanity.”

“Good point, Love.”

Buffy shot her vampire a quick, strained smile. “This isn’t as simple as you’re making it, Giles. It never was.”

‘No,’ Giles finally answered. ‘But it isn’t as simple as you’re making it either, Buffy. You _cannot_ join with demons to fight against humans. Not under any circumstances. No matter what those humans are doing, and no matter what forces they have arrayed against you.’

Defeat edged her voice, made her weary. He wouldn’t see the obvious. Couldn’t; that he was the one keeping it black and white. “I already have, once. Technically. I fought them with Spike, just a few weeks ago. And I fought beside demons against the Initiative, way back when. Kind of by accident, but it happened…”

His voice turned flat; almost acid. ‘Well, that’s just utter sophistry. You were in no way intending the latter, and the former is… It’s an absolute exception to the rule when the demon in question is souled, and your blood-bound partner who will go everywhere with you as a matter of course…’

“And would have even before the soul, and long before we were sharing blood. Since he fought at my side against other demons to save _you_ from Dru and Angelus; _way_ before the chip.” /Did I ever even tell you that?/ “And I would have chosen the same way down in the Initiative, Giles, if I had had time to think about it. Yes,” she insisted at his stunned silence. “Even back then. And if it was the military using that rocket-launcher against me, instead of me using it against the Judge, what would you be saying right now if I had my demon-heavy team on my side ready to fight back?”

Another stunned silence.

“It’s not that easy, is it, when you get personal?” She let out a breath, because dammit, he was being so _blind!_ “And this isn’t either. It’s still personal, Giles. It’s just on a grander scale.”

When he finally answered, she knew it was all over. ‘Buffy, I’ve enjoyed watching you in your new situation. You’ve actually reminded me very much of your mother. You have a new self-possession and poise which is charming and admirable, and I’m very glad for you that you’ve managed to find some modicum of peace in your life. But I simply cannot condone or follow any course of action which includes joining hands with demonkind against human beings, in any form. So…” A short, pained huff of breath. “Here is where we part ways.’

That bright, razor-thin edge of hope came crashing down. She had seen it coming. She had hoped… But. “Are you going to go to war against me?” It wasn’t a small question, but it was a dead one; without flavor. 

Spike, behind her, did not growl, nor did he touch her. He merely held himself taut; prepared to do whatever she needed of him.

‘I do very much hope it won’t come to that. I very much think that all your efforts will come to naught…’

/Good to know you think I’m going to be so bad at follow-through./ Though, maybe he just thought what she was doing was foredoomed to failure. /Or maybe he just hopes it; hopes he won’t have to fight me./ 

“…And that in the end you will be forced to come back to the fold and join with us as we come up with whatever stopgap is necessary as we defend ourselves against this attack. In the meantime, I think it best if we don’t speak all that much.’

It hurt. God, how it hurt. “Alright, Giles. If that’s the way you want it.”

‘Goodbye, Buffy.’

The call ended. She closed the phone. Stared at it for a long moment. And then, somehow, it slipped from her nerveless fingers. 

Spike was there, caught it before it bounced off the tile to crack or whatever. Crouching in front of her as she moved, in slow-motion, to bury her face in her hands. “Oh, Love, Love…” He didn’t say it was bound to happen, didn’t say anything about I told you so. He just waited for a word. 

And when the sob juddered through her shoulders, he came to her, wrapped his arms around her, pulled her into his body, and held her together while the world tried to tear her apart.

***

Buffy did her best to try to pretend it didn’t hurt her. Went on about her life, held herself strong. Took some inconclusive underground meetings here and there with Spike. Taught her classes. Helped the little Loose-Skinned girl with the bad leg work on the strengthening kicks. Helped the Thurgald boy with the confidence problem work the bag till he got serious about actually hitting back. Made sure that one Brachen boy managed to keep his spines to himself when he was grappling until he was in a headlock. “Then go for it. I mean, at that point you need all the help you can get, and who cares if you’re found out, you know?” Got the two Movic girls convinced that it was actually okay to use their double-jointed legs against their opponents—that it wasn’t cheating—at which point things really got interesting in the sparring matches with the Thurgalds, who could extrude that second set of arms when they weren’t worried about people looking. And, you know, that one Ferava kid really, really started to make waves when she showed up and began using her four-foot wraparound armlock thing to wrestle the Tintanna kid into submission. Even something as slippery as a Tintanna couldn’t escape that kind of wingspan. 

Sometimes Nina came by to volunteer as a sparring partner for the kids, and to help them work on their throws. The Ferava even managed to keep a hold on her sometimes, though. Buffy was seriously considering hiring the teenager as assistant wolf-guard for full moons. They would just need to get her some kind of body-armor; like maybe an umpire’s chest-plate type thing. 

In the meantime, the only person so far who was able to take said teen, aside from Buffy, was Spike. Which was a thing to see. Well, watching Spike fight in general was a thing to see. Watching him was almost as good as fighting him. Excellent for the not-thinking, all that Spike-flesh in action. 

That was her main antidote for whenever she started thinking too much. Just rub a little Spike on that. Her guy; and sparring, and the clean, smooth action of heart and the thoughtless telegraphing of motion and sensation… and sometimes just him. Just them, until nothing was left but silence. The safe silence; the one that meant she could rest with him, without the danger that used to threaten at the end of the fight. 

That was what it was, between them, now, when they danced. Why it had long since become more. Why they were what they were. Not a mockery of other things, but... a celebration. Of pumping blood, and of life; and of an offering he could no longer give her, save gently, with all his heart.

He had always been able to give her that, when nothing else could. It was his gift. He had once come to her and said he was waiting for the time when it all got too much so that he could be the one to make it all stop; as he had done for Xin Rong, and Nikki Wood. The thing was… he did. All the time. He had found another way, for her. A way to tame the violence of life, make it all better; but with love. Because neither of them wanted her to die anymore, when it became too much. She’d been there, done that, knew what it was all about. The peace. The stillness. The silence, where she could finally be still. But.

In the end, she had decided… she didn’t want it again. Yes, someday. But not yet. Not when…

/Not if it means I have to leave you. Leave us. Leave _this_. So./ 

This was the trade-off. There were still moments when it all became too much. When the pendulum swung hard, and staying meant the world pushed back so fiercely that she fell. /But I don’t have to keep standing up anymore when it does that, while it beats me down, and beats me down, till I just want to die./ Now… she could fall back sometimes. And where she fell… It was no longer into a forever black hole. 

Now… she fell into Spike. Fell back against the solid bulwark that was her lover, strong at her back. Whenever everything got too hard, too bright, too violent again, and when she couldn’t lose anything else… he was there. When it got too hard to breathe or get through the next moment; that was when she looked to him and asked him to give her surcease of another kind, at his hands. Not the kind he once would have dealt; no. Instead he gave little deaths, and silence, and rest in short increments, so that she could get up and keep going… in short increments. Little moments of heaven. Of being happy. At peace, in a place where time had no meaning. Where nothing had form, for a few moments, but she was still herself, and he was still him, and… that was all that mattered. Where she was warm, and loved, and safe. Complete, for a moment. 

/It’s enough; to have heaven again, with you. And what I ever did without you is so beyond me, I can’t even understand it./

He had stayed close, ever since the conversation with Giles. Was there, whenever she needed to be still. And she was never more grateful for his presence. 

Maybe after class they could spar. It was that or go look for trouble, and even the incredibly minuscule amount of patrolling she was able to do in this insanely quiet area of the world had been reduced to a vague amount of peacekeeping; Basically bouncing at the bar, breaking up a few fights, and dusting one illicit fledge no one in town wanted to claim. That was it, ever since their whole ‘try to get on everyone’s good side’ campaign really picked up, so she was antsy as hell…

She really, really didn’t want to think right now. Maybe if…

“Faith’s ringing you, pet.”

Wiping her face, Buffy lowered her arms from the speedbag they’d rigged under the stairway and turned to her guy. Held out her hand for the phone, rubbing a bead of sweat out of her eyebrow as she did so, and half-smiled her thanks. “Hey, Faith; what’s up?”

‘Hey, B. Uh… I just wanted to give you a heads up. You know, since we said we would hang whenever we ran into each other again. I might not have time, but…’

Buffy slowed, moved around the stair to sit on the bottom step. “You’re coming over here?” She had seldom heard Faith sound so tentative.

‘Uh, okay, I dunno how much G-man told you, but I guess there’s this rogue Slayer over in the UK who’s like, training to assassinate the leadership or some shit. Some rich bitch named Genevieve something. Uh… Savidge. Anyway. He wants me to go after her, turn her around; and if I do, he’ll get me a passport and set me up somewhere out of this damn country. So he’s gonna send me back to school. Teach me to sound like a stuck-up English bitch, like him or Wes, then send me up there…’

Something froze in Buffy. 

‘…I dunno how I’ll do at the accent part, but I figured, you know, since I did okay with those three chicks you put me onto from down in LA, maybe I could make a difference with this one. And God knows I need to get out of this country, so I’m heading that way.’

Yes, Faith had definitely worked wonders with Nicole, Tonya, and Brenda. They were all actually up with Rona’s cell right now, apparently more or less reformed and, per Rona, shaping up well—who knew—so voice of experience and all that. Buffy had no doubts who was the better-qualified to talk town a rogue Slayer, out of the two of them. But… /Somehow I don’t think that was Giles’ whole reason for not bringing it up to me that there’s a brewing Slayer crisis going on here in Europe. For going to Faith instead and dragging her all the way over here without even mentioning it to me. For not even giving me the courtesy of a heads-up, and for deciding that he’d rather spend all that time ‘coaching’ Faith./ Heck; he would’ve known that Spike could’ve coached her, if he didn’t want to spend that much time with her himself. “No, actually, Giles didn’t mention it.” She knew her voice sounded a little off, no matter how hard she tried to keep it flat and uninflected. 

‘Oh. Oh, shit, B. I just figured…’ Faith sounded really anxious all the sudden. ‘I mean, maybe he just didn’t wanna bother you. You know, since you’re apocalypse-only girl and shit? I mean, this is kinda my gig…’

It wasn’t Faith’s fault. /It’s not her fault. I won’t take it out on her. Stuff that’s between me and Giles…/ “Giles is pissed off at me right now, Faith. But… that’s not your problem. We’re… good. You do what you need to do, okay?” That sounded natural, right?

‘Hell, B… This about the thing with your plan? G-man didn’t like it much, huh?’

Guess not so much with the sounding natural. “Faith. Seriously. It’s okay. If you wanna… keep me posted, or you need any help, or… You know. I’m around.” God, she sounded weird, even to herself. 

Faith also sounded insanely uncomfortable when she replied. ‘You know it. I think I’m five-by-five on this one though. I mean, how tough can it get? As long as I can fool her I’ll just go in, check in on this chick, get the 411, talk up the whole “be a white-hat” thing… and if she doesn’t play ball, knock her out so Giles can grab her; be out. No big.’ A short silence. ‘Maybe that’s G’s issue. Maybe he thinks he’d rather have me do it, since it might come down to…’ A taut silence. ‘I mean, he wouldn’t be the first guy to think it’s okay to ask me to get my hands dirty again, since I’ve already got blood on ‘em…’ And something rough, pained entered Faith’s voice.

“No,” Buffy answered again, softly. “I hope not, because that’s not really fair to you. I’ve seen that with Spike. You shouldn’t have to keep coming back from that.” She hesitated, uncertain her offer would be wanted, but. Well. Things had changed between herself and Faith, so it was worth a shot. “If… If you need help…”

The rough thing vanished from Faith’s voice. A new note entered it. ‘I… Yeah. I’ll call. Listen. I’m… I’m sorry about this. I didn’t know I was stepping in something.’

Buffy felt like she was on autopilot. “No. Listen. It’s fine. It’s a Giles and me thing. It’s not your problem. Just… you know. Go in. Get what you need from him with a clear head. Do the deed, you know? Don’t worry about it. And anyway, turning this girl around? Should be total cake for you by now, with everything you’ve been through, right?” She felt the pain shimmer up from somewhere deep within. “You’ve come out the other side.” It shuddered through Buffy, swelled in her throat, behind her eyes and nose. “I get why he trusts you more than me right now.” /Shit, I really said that, didn’t I?/

‘Shit; it’s not like that, B. I think he thought I’d just be better at this one because I’d get this girl. You know, outcast, broken, renegade; that whole sob-story…’

She had said too much. Dammit. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Faith. You would be better. I’m not… discounting that at all. It’s just… That’s not all of it. But thank you for saying it.”

‘B…’

“I’ve gotta go. Talk to you later, okay?” Buffy closed the phone before she lost control. 

Spike was there, of course, the instant the conversation ended. “Slayer…”

Buffy shook her head. /I just… really can’t right now./ “I think I need to go for a run. I’ll… be back later.”

She really, really couldn’t. And, after a second, Spike nodded acknowledgment, let her go without another word. 

She ran; out of the dojo, between the warehouses, to the beach. Along the sand, let it suck at her feet as dusk gripped her, tried to suck her down into darkness. As the stars bloomed, and the lights sprang up along the water, the cool air of late February in southern Spain blew past her face, dried the sweat at her hairline, the taint of brine catching at the back of her throat and…

Eventually she was just too thirsty to keep going. Otherwise she might have run till she got to the next province. 

One thing Hell-A had taught her was that Slayer strength might last forever, but Slayers were still made of seventy-five percent water. Dammit. 

Turning slowly and reluctantly, she headed for home. Found their own personal stretch of beach almost entirely by feel, as the lights all looked weird from this odd approach vector; down here, from the water, from the east. Walked through the surf for the last bit, holding her shoes in her hands, till she passed that last little outcrop of rock that looked like the Ano-Movic face, found some dry sand, plunked herself down there and seriously considered not going in no matter how thirsty she was at this point, because that meant dealing with people. Tiny would be in there trying to ply her with food, and the rest of the crew, too, and she just didn’t _want_ to people right now.

Of course, if she got too close to the water… Tonight was poker night, which meant that the whole team was probably close by, and…

A large, fishy head rose briefly from the wavelets, down there by the rocky edges of the beach, eyed her for a moment in silence… then dunked promptly back below the surface. George, reading her snarl of thoughts very accurately and deciding that, thanks but no thanks, so not his problem for tonight.

/Yay. Even the guy who is our resident smoother-over wants nothing to do with me right now. That’s nice. Shit./ No way to win. And no way she was going inside, if she was that bad. Which sucked, because she really was majorly thirsty; but to go inside would be to spread her cranky-ass vibe around, and invite comment, or even commiseration and crappy attempts to cheer her up, and… /Just, dammit./ All of that effort from the gang would really just serve to make her feel worse, when she was already just incredibly…

Familiar vamp tingles; the strong, Master-vamp sort, like being submerged in a vat of Pepsi. A brief darkness as the lights from the porch were blocked off, and she sighed and lowered her head to bury it between her knees. “If you’re going to lurk and set off every hair on my body, you might as well just get over here and get it over with.”

His reply came without heat. “Just bringing you some sodding water, Slayer.” He didn’t invite himself to sit beside her; just bent to screw the glass down in the sand at her side, then straightened again to shove his hands into his pockets. Tugged out a cigarette and his lighter. Waited; probably to see if she was going to shoo him off before he lit up. 

With a faint scoff, Buffy restrained herself from picking up a handful of sand and throwing it at nothing, because that would be incredibly childish. Instead she grabbed the glass of water. Chugged it fiercely. Jammed it back down into the beach as hard as she could. Probably cracked it; because they had so many glasses. Grr. 

Okay, she had to admit that she felt better. Still. Dammit. “I’m really not in a good mood, William.”

He grunted. “Noticed.” Lit up. “Run all the way to Roquetas, did you?”

“Almost. Saw the Castillo in the distance.” 

The smell of his smokes drifted on the air, pissing her off because it automatically calmed her. “Why aren’t you playing poker?” she snapped. 

He let her shitty mood roll right off of him as equably as he ever did. “Told everyone we were taking a personal night and to bugger off.”

/Oh, for God’s sake. I’m not a _baby_ , Spike! You can do whatever you want! You don’t have to put your damn life on hold just because I’m having a bad night, or…/

And that wasn’t fair, and she knew it. She would always be one hundred percent his priority; without question. It was just… sometimes that felt like a responsibility too, or something to live up to—something she never could—which, just, right now… 

She lowered her face back down to her knees. “God. I really feel like crap tonight. I’m so pissed off, at _everything_ …”

“Know it, pet.”

“And I don’t wanna take it out on you just because you’re closest.”

“Always gonna be closest.”

It made the easy rage rise to the surface. Made her want to swing. /And I don’t _do_ that anymore. I don’t…/ “Spike, please don’t. I don’t wanna…”

“We can fight, if you need to.”

“No.” /Dammit, no! Don’t you _see?_ It’s not _you_ I wanna fight right now! It’s the world, and it’s things I can’t fix, and can’t change, and…/ And that had ever been the case, really, which just made it worse, because old guilt didn’t help. Hot tears of rage and frustration threatened at the corners of her eyes, made her fists clench tight at her sides. She fought them all down. /How can I help you understand?/ “Nothing’s real anymore right now. Nothing makes sense, nothing I do comes out right. And I don’t wanna make it more wrong. So can you just go away and let me shadowbox the world without you? Just this once?” She could hear her own voice going thick, knew he would feel her misery and her frustration and her pain no matter how far he was, knew what she was asking of him. Knew how hard it would be for him to turn his back on her while she cried, could feel his helpless response, and… “Just let me be alone tonight,” she whispered, thickly.

He sighed. Threw his cigarette away from himself—damn litterbug—and squatted carefully beside her, arms laid over his knees. Because he was a jerk, had never stopped being a jerk, and a stubborn asshole, and that was how he loved her; like a fucking runaway train or something. Or one of those mountain goats with the huge, stupid horns, who banged their heads on something over and over again till they won the right to mate with the girl. He just kept coming, and coming and coming… “See, the problem with that is, Slayer, I already made you a promise, a long bloody time ago, that I’d never leave you alone, yeah? Never leave you. So…”

_God_ , he pissed her off. “Don’t be stupid. That’s not what I meant, and that’s not what you meant…”

“Absolutely what it means. I’ll give you space, sure. Already did. Will do again. I’ll go up there. Get out of your hair.” His voice lowered then, to a quiet murmur of concern. “Need to know you’re alright first, though, Buffy. And right now, you’re not.”

She cracked a little. Because he was right. She’d run. And come back. And been alone. And it wasn’t working. _“Dammit…”_

“‘S okay pet. Fifty-fifty, remember? I spent the last few weeks cracking. Your turn now. Good bloody thing you finally got me back on my feet.”

She hissed and turned away again, swiveling her face back to the water. “Yeah, what happens when we both fall apart at the same time one of these days?”

“Hopefully never happen.” He reached out, laid one hand on her shoulder. “Here’s where you show the face you can’t anywhere else, and you know it. Let me see it, pet. All of it; the demons you hide. I can take it. You had me show you mine. You were strong enough for all of me.” His voice altered then, as it so very occasionally did, to that slower, longer cadence that bespoke his previous life. “Love. Do me the same courtesy.” And just his index finger rose, to brush her cheek.

She was shaking her head before he had even finished, holding herself tightly in check and trembling with it. “Dammit, Spike, it’s not the same. Your demon doesn’t hurt me. My demons hurt you.”

His finger dropped away, and he squeezed her shoulder briskly. “Not true and we both know it. And any road, you’re making the rules up as you go. Only, they’re based on old penalties.”

Another jag of out-of-control anger. /No. You want me to say I don’t care. About anything. About what I could do to you; again. To just throw punches at you like you’re _nothing_ , and fall apart, and _use_ you, and that’s not fair, and it’s not acceptable, and…/ Spike had seen her broken. Had held her up when she couldn’t stand. And she had let him. But not _this_. Not ever again. Not…

“Let me help you fight the world, Buffy.”

“No.”

“I’m strong enough.”

/That’s not…/ _“No.”_

“I’m fast enough.”

It was like he thought she was saying he wasn’t good enough for her or something. /That’s not the _point!_ / _“No,_ Spike!”

_“Dammit_ , Buffy!” He was on his feet now; had grabbed her by the hands, dragged her to hers. Was in her face, roaring it, hands clenched hard on her upper arms till his fingers punched into her flesh. “Why won’t you let me be yours? Why won’t you let _go_ with me? You will in bed, you will everywhere else, but _this_ …” His expression turned hurt, bewildered. “You’ll spar, yeah, you’ll dance… but nothing serious. Nothing too real. Nothing with emotion behind it. When you get brassed you back off and pat me on the head and go work the bag. When it comes to that you treat me like I’m still a sodding muzzled dog or a damn pet! You say I’m your equal but when it comes to this you won’t let me be your man, and…”

His confusion broke some old wall in her. Anger and tears all at once, and did he want a fight? Did he _really_ want one? “Are you _stupid?_ What’s _wrong_ with you? I can’t _see_ you like that again. Like when I beat you down, and I beat you, and I _hurt_ you, and I…”

Understanding dawned on his face, lighting his eyes with a sick, sad old agony. “Oh, fucking Christ, Buffy; you weren’t seeing me _then!_ You weren’t beating _me_ , dammit; you were beating the prick you never got to, because that fight got stolen from you! You never got to kill the bastard, because even at the end, he got buried behind Angel’s face; and he’s still there. And then we started fucking, and it made you think you were becoming the same, till you started hating yourself. So you took it all out on me, like you were beating the fuck out of yourself. Everything you did with me back then was a way to beat yourself up, but it had sod all to do with me!”

“Wh…”

“But it’s not gonna happen again because you’ve gone right the fuck past that and out the other side; so let me _dance_ with you, Buffy! Stop protecting me from yourself like you’re some sodding monster, when…”

“What are you…”

“Oh, bloody hell…” He closed his eyes, pulled her up close against his chest. “You’ve finally got all your vampires straight, is all, Slayer. You know who your monsters are, and you know who to hate. You don’t hate yourself anymore, sure the bloody hell don’t hate me. I think I’m safe, yeah?”

Her head was whirling, anger almost lost in the morass. “Well… If… If what I did before was take it out on you that I was mad at me and… At Angelus…” He might be right about that. She wouldn’t be surprised, though she really couldn’t think clearly right now to analyze it. But if that _was_ true… then there was a hole in his logic. “…Then how’s it different for me to fight you when I’m mad at Giles, or…”

He actually chuckled at her, the dick. “Because you don’t want to kill the sodding Watcher, pet. Doubt you’re that brassed off at him, no matter what he’s done to you. You’re confused and you’re hurt, and you need to get it all straight in your head. And how you process your emotions is through your fists; same as me. Other than that there’s sex, but since this is about Rupert I don’t think that’s the right road. Hence you runnin’ off down the beach for hours like a damn cheetah…”

“Okay, you know what?” Volatility was her watchword for tonight. Confusion receded, swiftly replaced once more with irritation. “I’m not a cheetah. And ew…”

“Exactly.” He pushed her away from him; a brisk, nettling shove that made her stagger. “What are you brassed about, Love?”

What; did he want her to just… dredge it all up? “He likes Faith better than me now.”

Spike snorted, and darted a short jab toward the side of her head. “Piffle.”

She dodged it automatically, hands up to guard, but didn’t swing. “He doesn’t love me anymore.” And the hollow feeling of that fear ached deep.

“Rot.” He tried a hook-kick for the back of one of her knees. She danced away. 

Spike was right. That wasn’t it. Giles would always love her. It was just… “He doesn’t trust me.”

A short pause, and Spike straightened to cock a finger at her. “That’s it, there. He might not.”

She closed her eyes, and it welled up in her. Not sorrow. Not regret.

Goddamned rage. “I’ve earned that. His trust. I’ve fucking _earned_ it!”

“You’re sodding right, you have.”

She swung, almost without thinking. Was blocked. Had never doubted he would block. “I’ve earned it and I’ve earned it and why can’t he just give me the _courtesy_ …” _Roundhouse; duck, jab…_ “…The benefit of the doubt long enough to follow my lead and actually do his stupid job and _watch_ for a damn change and see what _happens…”_ Kicks and spins and elbow strikes. Low and high and everything in between, no holds barred, and Spike wasn’t trying to hit back at all. He was just defending, watching her with glittering eyes in the dark. “…Instead of taking it all away from me and trying to lead _for_ me, to the point where it _undermines_ me, and might even start a war between Slayers! Might get them all _killed,_ make it all fall apart, do their stupid work _for_ them because he doesn’t _trust_ me!” Her flurries were picking up speed now, full-force. Spike was grunting, but she almost didn’t hear him over the roar of her own mind, the volume of her wrath as it poured through her body and ate her mind in a conflagration. “I’m so _mad_ at him, Spike! I’m _so_ mad…” 

She realized distantly that she was gritting out the words, that she had tears streaming down her face… and that she had completely lost control of her body. She was striking now without thought; hard and as fast as she could. That she couldn’t stop. That she had zero form; that she was just _throwing_ herself at Spike’s body; pummeling and kicking and… and spending herself. /Oh God…/

He caught her as she sagged. Held her up. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just…”

He shut her up with his mouth, and oh god, the only thing to do then was hang on for dear life by his hair, lose herself; because that meant he was alright, maybe? He wasn’t down, probably she hadn’t hurt him, and anyway he wasn’t mad. He was holding her, and somehow she had completely lost control and he was still alright. They were, maybe, still alright. /Ohgodohgodohgod…/

“Cry if you need to, Slayer. I’m still here…”

He was sitting somehow, cradling her, and she had no idea why he was still there. “Why did you let me…”

“Because you needed it, daft bird.”

He was so insane. “How can you love me?” It was like he didn’t even have to try hard, and it just made zero sense to her sometimes.

His arms tightened around her. “Shh, Buffy. You really need to stop saying idiot things. We both know you’re cleverer than you pretend to be.”

He didn’t make any sense at all sometimes. She’d just beat him up, and now he was holding her, and… And he had never wanted her to change, but sometimes she felt like she really should, because who she was was… “Tell me I’m easy to live with, Spike. That I’m easy to love. I know it’s a lie, but I’ll believe you.” She was whispering now, and it felt like begging. She needed someone to make her feel it. “Tonight, I’ll believe you.”

He rocked her a little, lowered his lips to the top of her head. Kissed her hair. “I don’t lie to you, you insane chit, and you know it.”

She closed her eyes and shivered, feeling abruptly cold as the heat of their one-sided dance fled. “Just this once…”

“So you’ll know I’m tellin’ the truth when I say that livin’ with you, lovin’ you, is my greatest honor.” He stroked her hair; a long, unending caress from crown down her spine, tugged her up by small of her back to pull her more firmly against him. “And easy, for me. Like breathin’ now.”

It had to be a lie. It _had_ to be… /But as long as you… Just please don’t leave./

He wasn’t stupid. He could read her like a book. “Never leave you, Buffy. Never leave me. Wouldn’t know how, and you know it. B’sides; you know better. As if I’m the easiest sod to put up with. And you can’t be rid of me, any road. So stop bein’ a prize nit and let’s go in.”

Well… wow. He’d never called her _that_ before. That was usually a word he reserved for, like, Xander. “I’ve really fallen from favor tonight.” It was an attempt at humor, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. 

“Stop thinkin’ you’ve hurt me, and I’ll revise my estimates.”

She bit her lip. “Let me look at you in the light, and I’ll… try to stop.”

He sighed, but gave in to push himself to his feet, help her to hers. And once inside, he let her strip him, inspect his torso, his face in the lamplight. And, aside from a couple of bruises from a few strikes he hadn’t managed to block, all damage was restricted to his forearms and legs. Which, to be fair, matched up with her own set of bruises from _being_ blocked, and alright. Maybe she had misjudged what he could do now, after a year or so on Slayer blood with a human base, and apparently she needed to revise her mental assessment of his abilities, because it was one thing to spar with someone every day and to be intimately aware of their speed, their strength, their striking depth—in effect what they could dish out—but entirely another to know what they could take if you really tested them. 

She hadn’t been holding back lately. But she hadn’t been entirely letting go, either. And there was, in fact, a difference.

Now she knew what he meant. And… “Oh,” she whispered, running her fingers along the backs of his forearms. 

“I’m strong enough,” he told her softly, and lifted his fingers to her face. “I told you. Strong enough to be yours.”

“Oh,” she heard herself whisper once more, and closed her eyes against the tears that escaped as she moved into his arms. And shook, as a very old pain and shame was pressed from her body by the freedom of his embrace.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(Quote by Doris Lessing)  
  
Been wanting to reconcile that scene behind the police station for about six million years, so there we go. It feels very relieving. Hope it worked for everyone. (btw, song for that scene is "Strong Enough" by Sheryl Crow, if you're into that sort of thing.)  
  
As to Giles... well. We'll get there. Again. Later, as the world turns. After first Ethan, then losing Jenny, there's just zero way he would ever see someone he loved turn toward something dangerous, something to which he thinks he might lose them, and not go directly back to his pattern of conservative, hidebound dogma and emotional withdrawal as self-protection. That's just his MO, to save himself having to witness, and feel the pain of, losing that beloved person. (As was obviously his pattern after losing Buffy, as well.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a two-part bit for the next chapter, since the first part of it was too short and not much happened in it, all the action ending up in the second part. It was either gonna be too short with nothing happening, or a little long with all the action coming in at the end... so I went with action. Also, some fun stuff with Faith, because that's always entertaining.
> 
> Thank you for your support; y'all rock!

“You okay about it, pet?”

Buffy sighed and shifted against him on the couch. “Yeah. I’m great. I’m just going to let him and her go ahead had have their little relationship, without me.” She knew she sounded sulky, but whatever. She was being a grownup. She couldn’t be perfect, right?

Spike stroked her shoulder absently. “Maybe it’s good to step back. Seems to me the girl needs a little mentoring.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, aware she didn’t have to hide anything from Spike. “Yeah, and she had it. From Angel.”

Spike grunted sourly. “Always ends well, that.”

She ignored him to stare into the well of her own soul. “I dunno. Maybe I’m just jealous that Giles chose her over me. Or that I’m just… tired. Of being disappointed by him.”

“Think more it’s just you don’t want to share your dad, luv. Especially with the bad sister.”

It hurt to hear; more so because it made her sound incredibly petty. “Yeah, I suppose. And maybe I never did. And it’s time I got over that, I guess. I’ve had all the attention for all this time, and she’s been… neglected. And she’s a mess. I mean, if I look at it all…”

“Objectively?”

/Okay, fine./ “He was both our Watcher, but she got to live on her own, in a motel. I had a family. She had no one. I had friends. She got whatever Watcher was left over after I was done with him.” She frowned at their wall decorations, as if they were glaring at her. “I always thought of Wes as her Watcher, but he didn’t come along till later, and by then she was already going bad, so maybe if I’d just… shared…”

Spike shifted against the arm of the sofa. “Can’t speak to much of this, Buffy, as I wasn’t about, but I know you were young, yeah? Can’t say it was all on you. Rupert should’ve been on that. He was the adult in that situation.”

/True. Still…/ “I was _such_ a bitch. I was so… resentful. About Kendra. I felt like Faith was this replacement I didn’t ask for. That it was all my fault she was even there. That everyone who died was my fault; because of Angelus. So, you know, Drusilla killing Kendra was my fault…”

“Dru might’ve done that chit whether Angelus was about or not, Love.”

Buffy sighed. “I know. Still.”

“You can’t save everyone.”

She’d learned that in Hell-A. “I know. But I didn’t know that then. I thought…”

“That it was a failure when you didn’t.”

“Yeah. And Faith…”

“Big signpost representin’ your failures?”

She didn’t have to answer that.

“Tough to get cozy with the chit when she stood for all that rot.”

“Basically.” She shifted against him, buried her face in his throat. “Anyway, maybe Giles was too caught up in my drama too. With the Angel thing, and trying to figure out how to keep me alive when the Council wanted to kill me and whatever. I’ll never know. And maybe he’s trying to make up for that now, with her. And maybe I’m just mad because I feel like he owes me more, like a selfish bitch…”

“Keep callin’ my bird names and I’m like to get angry.”

/As if you haven’t called me that before./ Besides; it was true. She really was a selfish bitch; a big, black hole, begging for everyone to throw love at her till it filled her up. Just like Angel, and what if she drained even _Spike_ dry someday? He seemed like an endless well of love, but…

“Stop.”

She lifted up on her palms, arrested by his furious glare. “I worry about being too much for you sometimes.”

Cool fingers tilted her chin up. “You give me back far more than you think you do, nowadays. Stop. Now’s for you.” His hand stroked her hair, urging her back to his chest. “Lay your head and tell me. Talk it out. What you’re afraid of, really.”

It hurt to even think it, but she went; mostly because lying in his arms, feeling his t-shirt against her hot, angry, frightened cheek was like a magnet. Spike; the eye of her personal storm, where everything made sense. He parsed the world for her, put the chaos into words… and checked her when she was going seven thousand miles per hour. /You’re my reality check, my brakes, my edge when I need an edge… and my warm, safe place when I need that, too. Who knew one person could be so many things?/

/Who knew it would be _you?_ / “What if he’s given up on me?” she heard herself whisper. “What if he thinks there’s no way to fix me, so he’s moving on to Faith because he thinks there’s still room for work there?”

“Doubt that, Buffy,” Spike answered, utterly unruffled. “Rupes is utterly committed to you.”

She couldn’t quite shake the fear. “He left. And never really came back.” /Like Angel./

“He’s scared right now. Has been since you came back and he realized you know what you are. No place for him to fit with you anymore.” A cool, comforting hand slipped up the back of her arm. “No managing an undomesticated Slayer, yeah? He might protest too much, but deep inside he knows… you’ve bunged up their whole breeding program by dying a whole helluva lot; and now you’ve gone and freed the whole sodding Line and mated it off, so they’ll never have any of you captive again…”

/Wait. Mated the… The Line?/ It was a peculiar way to say it. “What do you…”

He lifted one brow at her, pointed in one of his moments of stark analysis. “All one demon, innit? One entity inside every one of you chits, only now it’s spread a bit thin, animating hundreds of girls instead of just one at a bloody time.” Cool, cerulean eyes assessed her with sharp, pensive interest. “No idea what that does to a demon essence has already been split in twain for eight years and a bit… but if you’re right about Dru, then I s’pose it’s been bifurcated for a bit soddin’ longer; since at least 1860…”

Buffy gave a start, realization flooding her. She had never really considered that, but he had a point. If that was when Drusilla had been sired, and if she had been a Slayer and not just a Potential, then… “Oh.”

“Yeah. Any road, one way or another, it’s gone from being in just two or three chits for a while to figuring how to bolster dozens and keep them strong. It’ll have learnt to bulk up by now, yeah? But it’s still all one entity, Love. Which means, us mating has given the Line something it’s never had before us…”

Buffy closed her eyes and nodded, recognizing what he was saying. “She’s not lonely anymore.”

Spike’s voice perked quietly through her being in answer. “Know you haven’t spent a great deal of time with the chits since, but do you think it’s changed how they behave, at all?”

Buffy frowned thoughtfully. “Back at the castle, they all seemed less…” She fished in the air for a word, fighting to encapsulate a subtle difference. “I dunno. Less edgy. Less touchy. Less… hurt-seeming? Like…” So incredibly difficult to put the ephemeral into words, when you were Buffy. And when it was _feelings_ … But Spike was unendingly patient with her while she struggled through such ephemera, and excellent at filling in the blanks. She was safe to try. “I know how _I_ felt,” she whispered, remembering all of it. All the painful years before their reunion, their joining. “Like my emotions were so easily bruised, all the time, before. Before you. _Everything_ hurt. Everything was raw, on edge; like I was wearing my nerves on the outside of my skin. I could take any amount of physical pain, but the emotional stuff—even the slightest loss or harsh word—was like being ripped in half or stabbed through the heart…”

A cool finger brushed over her lips. “I remember, Buffy,” he whispered. “I was there. You could outlast any demon on Earth on the battlefield, but when it came to your heart, the slightest touch could make you crumble. It was why you armored up so bleedin’ hard.”

She nodded, fast and ferocious, held back the tears with an effort, and wondered at their involuntary rising. “Yeah, well, you’d know.”

“Only way to hurt you was to make you love a bloke, which was why you fought so damned hard not to. Because once you loved someone, they had the power to destroy you. You felt so much, so bloody hard…” His hand slipped to her cheek, her shoulder, pulled her down to his chest. “Still do, pet, but it feels different, now. Anchored, like you’re less buffeted about by life…”

“Yeah,” she heard herself whisper, because that, right there, was what it was like.

“‘Magine this Faith chit’s the same,” Spike went on thoughtfully. “Know her type. Lot like you in that way; armored up till the world can’t touch her. Would lay money she’s as soft at the center as you are, and that us mating has bolstered her in ways she can’t quite fathom. That she has no idea why she feels on so much more an even keel than she ever did before, maybe even more willing to reach out to people…”

Buffy pushed up again to blink at him. “So you’re saying that even if the rest never find…”

He shrugged one-shouldered against the cushions of their ragged couch. “Who knows. Isn’t as if I’m a great sodding expert on demon-essence relations, just because I’m shaggin’ the Slayer-Prime…”

She socked him lightly in the shoulder. He grinned irrepressibly at her before he sobered slightly. “What I do know,” he went on quietly, “is when my woman is suffering. And I can tell you flat out, Rupes loves you, Buffy, whatever is goin’ through that idiot’s head. He may be a stubborn old fool, but he does. It’s only, right now he has no idea what’s going through yours either, because he sees you veerin’ right off a mad cliff, maybe becoming everything the Council’s warned him a Slayer never ought, and he’s bloody terrified for you. An’ he sure the hell doesn’t want to have to be terrified _of_ you.” 

His mouth twisted slightly, dark amusement predominant. “Aside from which, there’s the bit about, what happens if you take the rest of the Slayers with you, because you are the bloody Slayer-Prime. What if they all listen, and run right off that soddin’ cliff with you? What becomes of his life’s work then? And where does he fit in, now, if you change it all up on him?” He scoffed pointedly. “‘Specially when you keep insisting on scaring the shite out of him, putting yourself in danger so it hurts to love you?” Solemn blue eyes caught hers, held them. “He’s already lost you once, and we all know how hard he’s fought since to keep you at arms’ length. Which let me tell you, pet, is all so that he doesn’t have to hurt again if you die on him another time.” 

/Well, when you put it that way… Crap./ Whether she wanted to recognize it or not… and whether Giles did or not, he had been part of the system. A rebellious, unwilling cog, but part of it nonetheless. “Part of him probably hates me. He probably never wants to look at me, if I’m wrecking everything that he believes in, and all I ever do is scare him, and...”

The long, slow stroking on her arm never faltered. “He’s proud. Scared as hell… and proud. And no idea what to do with puttin’ the two together. Glad you’ve freed yourself and the rest of the chits; but where does that leave him? Sod’s had no place in things since you left secondary, really, innit?” A sour note touched her guy’s voice. “So yeah, he left. It was that or keep losing himself in the drink; and let me tell you, something, Buffy. Ol’ Ripper was well on his way to losing himself in the bottle, long before you died.”

Buffy winced, but didn’t gainsay Spike’s interpretation. Looking back… Giles really did always have a tumbler in his hand, even back when she’d first started college; and why did her guy always have to be so incisive? “So he’s looking for purpose, and I keep taking it from him by finding mine? How is that better?” she demanded of his chest. “How is it okay that he went back to England for his own mental health, and me coming back dragged him right back to the place where he couldn’t even stay sober, and…”

“Take all that on yourself and I’ll bite you.”

The old, toothless threat almost made her smile. “Don’t be stupid. I’m serious.”

A low sigh. “I get it, pet, but… Maybe it’s time to forgive yourself for all this, yeah? _And_ him, for buggerin’ off?”

She looked away. It was tough to forgive, since the only man who had ever left her and truly come back was lying here, holding her in his arms. “I mean, but maybe… it was more. Maybe he was just as tired as I was, and that’s why the drinking, the everything. Maybe he felt like he did his job, and it was over.” She didn’t say it, but Spike would hear it anyway; her greatest fear. /What if, deep inside, the tiniest part of Giles was kind of glad I died so he could be off the hook, finally?/ “I mean, it wasn’t like he _asked_ for me to be brought back; any more than I did. Any more than I asked to die.” She half-shrugged against her vampire’s smooth chest. “I mean, I _did_ mean to die, at the end, but I didn’t _mean_ to, you know? But maybe deep inside… he was glad? Happy it was… done, so he could pick up the pieces of his life in England and start over…” 

Spike made a sound that was more than half-growl. She rushed on unheeding, needing to get it all out. “And then I was back, and he had to throw it all away again and put up with me, and being a Watcher, and making his life about trying not to die, and taking care of a bunch of barely-not-teens-anymore when he’d just finally got the chance to live for himself again, and…”

Spike did actually bite her then; a hard nip with blunt teeth, closing over the juncture of her shoulder to hush her. Her anxious rush of words cut off like water at a spigot, and he lifted his mouth away to speak in a fierce, almost angry rumble. “Listen to me, you insane, daft bint. Not gonna deny you lot were a right load of nits sometimes, but he loved every one of you, yeah? And what was his life meant to be about back in Bath? What would give a retired Watcher meaning? Sitting back to write his bloody memoirs? ‘My Life on the bleeding Hellmouth; a Watcher’s Story’? Who’d sodding read it?”

Well, okay. She hadn’t thought of _that_.

Spike was actually breathing hard as he nuzzled her neck, behind her ear, fighting to keep his own equanimity as her rush of emotion sought to overwhelm him. “Wager he was bored out of his skull after a week, whatever he told himself about a vacation. I mean, wouldn’t you be?”

/Okay, fair./

He pulled away to pin her with a fierce, blue gaze. “Drownin’ in guilt, to boot. Dammit, Buffy, know it was the happiest day of his soddin’ life, hearin’ you were back, even if it scared him to death, no doubt, wonderin’ how Red did it and what it all might’ve meant for you. I know it because I felt the same fucking way…”

“But you…”

“No; you shut it. You’re mad, alright, to even think that! Listen. It’s not like you think at all. He came back, holdin’ his breath… and then saw how you were and wondered if you were more than he was prepared to handle. Because he knew; what you might be, what you might know, what might’ve been unleashed. Thought he might not be up to the task of what you’d be goin’ through.” Familiar, cool hands cupped her face as she fought the tears. “Thought he might fail you, I reckon; had no tools for a Slayer come back from the sodding dead. From heaven, no less; depressed as fuck, and armed with more demon in her than any Slayer since the first they’d made. What might you do, on his watch? What had he to offer you, to navigate all that? Was he meant to be more of a failure than he’d already been? Would you go feral? Go mad?” His hand ran up the back of her arm. “Or just off yourself some night to get away again, from all of it? And if you did, could he stand to see it again? Bloody hell no, he couldn’t. He’d failed you once and he’d fail you again, and he was sodding terrified.”

/No, that’s.../ It was still so hard to reverse her thinking, even if everything Spike said made so much sense, dovetailed completely with what Giles himself had said. Her voice sounded small even to her own ears when she spoke up again. “I think of him as a surrogate dad, but it scares me to death wondering sometimes if maybe he thinks of me as just a job. And I’ve always been too hard of one.”

When Spike answered, his voice was firm. “Bollocks. That man felt like his guts were ripped out when you died, and he couldn’t stand to see it happen again. Only reason he’s walled himself off, since. He put it on you; the world or your soddin’ sister, and he’s never forgiven himself since, because it lost him you. And you came back no longer his, so he’s had to divorce himself from you to save his own emotions. Can’t lose you again, an’ you bein’ what he sees as reckless, with a death wish; and now, bein’ dangerous and fey. What you’re doin’ now is just more proof, from his point of view, that you’ve never stopped bein’ that, since you’ve come back…”

/All vampire-screwing and living with demons, and now, with my big demon-pact plan-thing./ She supposed, from Giles’ point of view that made a weird kind of sense. He’d gone out on a limb and tried to step outside his beliefs, this once, a couple of weeks back, to see her and Spike as just ‘Buffy, his estranged daughter-figure and her significant other’; to open up the walls around his heart one more time… and then she’d sprung this whole thing on him, confirming all of his worst fears. And the doors had slammed shut again. “That I’m all ruled by my demon-side, so he’s lost me…”

“Maybe on his brainwashed level, yeah, but in his heart? No. More that he’s terrified you might get yourself killed again throwing yourself headfirst into the demon world trying to make this work, like a madwoman. He might lose you again, pet.” He sighed, his caressing hand running back up her arm. “Doesn’t mean what you think. The old fool loves you more than his own life. Whole reason he’s actin’ like a git.”

It was crazy; like some kind of weird reverse-psychology trick. And yet… “You’re saying… he’s doing what I do?”

“Catchin’ on, finally, is it?” 

His eyes were twinkling at her. He was amused at her moment of self-recognition, of the way she tended to surround herself with people who echoed her issues. /Look, you don’t get to say anything, Mr. Everybody Always Leaves Me Too. We had the same stupid trauma on that front for years, so shut up./

The twinkle died away, and Spike adjusted his arms around her, tugged her up a little higher on his chest. “Never doubt that he loves you, Buffy. You can tell it by how hard he’s running, that he’s keepin’ you at arms’ length to spare himself any more pain. Has been since he lost you the first bloody time. ‘S just plain guilt kept him away then, but it’s fear of losin’ you again has kept him away since, and makes him act the arse now. And if I ever hear you sayin’ anything else again, I’ll…”

Buffy’s lips twitched in spite of herself. “Run down the list and find me an option we haven’t used yet. I’ll let you get back to me tomorrow.”

“Cheeky bint.”

“Yeah, well…” She might never fully believe it, but at least she knew she had to let this go. Whatever was going on with Giles, she had to suck it up, because Faith…

Faith would always need more help than she ever would, and it was about time the other woman got it. “I guess it doesn’t matter how insecure I am about all this. Even if I’m mad that he’s not trying to make things up to me all the time, maybe he’s got more to make up to her, and I shouldn’t be greedy…”

“Sure you should,” Spike answered warmly, as supportive as ever. “You be as greedy as you need to be, pet, and I’ll roundly curse them both with you.”

She shot him a half-wry, half-amused glance. “From over here?”  
  
“Yeah. Where you can’t hurt anyone with the pointy things.”

/I love you so much./ 

They watched the sunrise for a while, creeping over the beach from the east. It was so nice to live in a place where she could leave the curtains open a little, at night, with him, just a hair, so that she could watch the daylight come in. Just that one, because the rays never touched the couch, or their bed, with all their windows facing south. Well, there was that one in the kitchen that faced east, which caused Spike problems in the mornings, but some heavy drapes fixed that issue, and…

“You should get some kip, Love.”

“Mmm.” Buffy let her fingers drift over his chest, thoughts perking sleepily through her mind. Of fathers and abandonment, and Spike’s uncanny understanding, and it couldn’t all be because of that insane, creepy relationship with Angelus, right? “I never asked you what happened with your father. Why he wasn’t in the picture.”

“Oh.” His voice turned sardonic. “Got himself killed in a duel, didn’t he? Reason me mum was so overprotective.”

Okay, that woke her up enough that she was pushing onto her side to get a better glimpse of his face. “A _duel?”_ It sounded so… medieval. 

“Yeah.” His voice had taken on that quiet, slow quality that said he was walking back in time, and his face was shadowed with memory. “Very fashionable, still, duels. Illegal, but. Someone calls someone a sodomite or a cad or says they’ve taken advantage of their sister, what have you. Pistols at dawn. That sort of thing. ‘Specially for gentlemen of leisure, and men who’d been officers in India and that, who had all the honor in the world to maintain.”

/Okay, that’s crazy./ “Very wild west.” It took moments like this to really hit her, the different world he’d come from. The changes he’d seen in the world over the years. “Was it, like… ten paces and shoot, or…” Too late she realized her morbid curiosity was probably wildly misplaced, considering that was how his father had, you know, died. “Sorry, I just… It sounds so _weird_ to me.”

“Mmm.” He sounded fairly philosophical about it at this point. “Sometimes it was. Had to walk a bit to get range with a pistol. You didn’t do it so much with swords anymore by then. That stopped after about middle of the last century.”

The seventeen-hundreds, he meant. Like… when Angel—or, well, Liam—had maybe dueled people. Which, just, wow. 

She had once dated someone who had probably dueled someone with _swords_. 

Nuts. Just nuts. And she needed to focus on the personal, human part of this, and not the ‘Wow, my boyfriend is old!’ part. “How… um… old were you? When he…”

“‘Round ten.” He frowned, clearly thinking hard. “Maybe nine?”

“I’m sorry.”

He dismissed it without moving a muscle. “It was a long time ago, Buffy. Don’t hardly remember him, save as a sort of a shadow in my world. A few things he told me.” Another long stroke of his hand over her hair. “How to treat a woman, yeah? How to love her well.” He smiled a little. “How bein’ a man of honor means tellin’ the truth and stickin’ to your word. Beyond that… just images. Was the man of the house after that, bein’ as Richard had already died. Bit young, but…”

/Oh./ God; it explained so much. So much about Spike. About _William_. “Richard was your older brother?”

“Yeah. My father’s by his first wife.” He frowned slightly, and furrowed up between his eyes, visibly struggling to remember something from the very distant reaches of his past. “Maude, I think she was called? Any road, Mum raised him, as Maude had died in childbirth. He went when I was… six I think. He would’ve been twelve or thirteen. He was away at secondary when it happened…”

Buffy blinked. His older brother had died at _school?_ And Spike sounded so _philosophical_ about it, like that was just a normal thing.

“Took sick from the cold nights in the bloody Long Chamber. Amazing Mum let me go away to school after that…”

“Wait; you went to the same school where the… like, the dorm was so cold your brother got pneumonia or something?”

He lifted the shoulder she wasn’t on, dropped it, looking unmoved. “That sort of thing happened fairly often back then, Buffy. It wasn’t all that uncommon. ‘Course, most who caught fever and ague at that age lived through it, though they might be sickly sorts for the rest of their lives afterward. You’d be ill for months, of course, without antibiotics and the like; have to lie abed for a year sometimes, recovering, but you didn’t always die…”

“Wow…” Buffy whispered, floored.

“So yeah. Was a bit of a shock that he went,” Spike went on, all conversationally. “They didn’t even have time to ship him home to convalesce. After that, Mum kept me right close, since it was so soon after losing Da.” He shook his head; a little, frustrated jerk. “Forbade me learning to fight, or getting into any sort of fisticuffs; which was tough, considering where I went to board. Had to defend yourself in boarding schools when I came up. Got damaged a lot, but she didn’t see it. Came home for holidays, tried to learn to fight, an’ it broke her heart, seein’ me getting’ into any scraps; like it was a soddin’ death sentence.” He shrugged it off, made a sour face. “Turned me into a right nancy, though I didn’t realize it at the time. Every time I got into any kind of tussle she cried her eyes out. Know now she was scared to death to lose me too, between havin’ already lost two kids, then him.” There was a short halt in the narrative. “Well, Richard wasn’t hers, yeah, but she raised him, so he might as well have been.”

/Just wow./ It really was just… such a different world. 

“Not to mention it was hard enough for a woman in that time to live just off her dead husband’s pension; even a gentlewoman. Managing a property an’ that… We got on, between us, but women weren’t taught maths and the like, so she knew only what she’d learned on her own; and I hadn’t gotten so far in school by that point. It was a hard old life for a while, and lucky we had a few very understanding folk among the help; a fine steward to help with the books, an excellent head housekeeper to manage the staff. Cook, to manage every other bloody thing. Loyal, like, who wouldn’t talk out of turn…”

_Such_ a different world. But also… Buffy could kind of see, now, how Spike, with all of his book-learning, could love and admire someone like her, who didn’t have it, and scraped by in the world with just her wits and her wiles and the determination god gave her. 

That, after all, had been his model. 

“But no matter how much we had to rub shoulders with the staff, she wouldn’t have any of them or their kids teachin’ me to box or anything of the sort. Nothing so low. Did only the sort of sport one enjoyed in the gentlemen’s clubs, later, and in Oxford. Calisthenics in the morning. Tennis, as a gentleman ought. Tried a bit of rowing, for the honor of St. Johns, but was cut from the crew for not keeping the time well enough…”

Buffy frowned and trailed a hand lightly over his abs. He would have had to have gotten those, and the arms, from somewhere, before he’d been turned. She remembered seeing him in her short flight into his past, courtesy of Illyria. He’d seemed… very physically retiring. Almost awkward. Very much the sort of person who was uncertain in his own body. She had assumed that it was the demon who had passed to him the very physical self-assurance he now possessed in his self and motion, his insanely athletic poise. But clearly he had at least stayed in shape, or he would have been a little more soft around the edges when he had been nipped up by Drusilla. 

After all, a lot could be hidden by one of those huge, unflattering suits they’d worn in his time.

“Only reason I even learned how to fence,” Spike went on, a quiet, not-quite-bitter recounting, “was it was required in school.”

“You know how to _fence?”_ It burst out of her without her recognizance. But okay. It was somehow really tough to imagine her brawler of a lover standing around in one of those balletic poses with one of those tiny swords, _tinging_ away all civilly without actually lopping anything off of anyone.

He shot her a sarcastic sort of look, armor halfway resurrected. He was tight around the eyes, though. “Did once. Kind of hard to avoid, did you go to a place like Eton.” He looked briefly pensive, expression relaxing. “Think it was a law, actually; or at least a very strong suggestion, for men of my standing. You didn’t learn and you got right shunned.”

“Oh.” He went to a school where PE was learning how to kill people with very tiny, very accurate swords. No _wonder_ he was such a good combatant.

“Course, I put all that away soon as I got to uni. Got right into the books and stayed, the way Mum preferred it. Stuck to gentlemen’s pastimes, because it was only proper to stay fit, though I was fair clumsy at most of ‘em. I was an ineffectual git, told everyone who ever wanted to cross swords with me after that, no matter if it was in fun or not, that I thought such exercise was, ‘entirely uncivilized sport’.” He had that weird, Giles-y accent again, for a second. It always weirded her out when he did that. “Hell. I was a right mama’s boy, yeah?”

She reached out to touch his hand. “You were just trying to keep her safe. Make the one person you had left happy.” She was still busy trying to imagine any iteration of Spike—or, William, she supposed—being clumsy.

“Yeah. S’pose so.” He shrugged and shifted slightly beneath her. She moved with him to get her elbow a little more out of his abdomen… and felt him lift up. Tug the Zippo out of his back pocket. “Anyway, soon as I dug out of my coffin I went straight for the combat again. Learned to be a fighter right quick. A sure division between one life and another. And none of that civilized shite, either. Went right for the fisticuffs. One nice brawl after another; direct for the taprooms.” He began to flick the lighter briskly; a slow, measured beat, as if he half-wanted to smoke in celebration of his siring. “Wee Willie was dead, or so I liked to think. Long live Spike. Not that I started callin’ myself that right off; not for a bit.”

Reaching out, she covered his twitchy hand, though she didn’t say anything. He knew she hated it when he got so down on himself; on his past life, now that she’d seen a little of it. 

Finally his head turned to her, blue eyes twinkling oddly. “Always did do just exactly what I thought would impress the girl.”

She let her hand drop away from the lighter in recognition. /Oh. Yeah. You do./ 

He’d changed for his mother. Again for Dru. And completely, once more, for her.

He called himself Love’s Bitch, but what he really was was Love’s true devotee and emissary. He would live and die by his ethos. And his reward for being so devoted—all he had ever wanted—was to be allowed to love someone like he had always wanted to do, and be loved in return. And what kind of insane idiot would say no to that?

/Well, I would, I guess, once upon a time. Because I was nuts. But thank goodness, I came to my senses./ “So, um…” Gently grabbing the Zippo out of his hand, she tossed it over on the coffee table… right on top of the small, dark journal he’d left there when he’d come out to bring her water earlier. As if to utterly deny his claim that ‘wee Willie’ was dead, he’d been writing, while he waited for her to get back from her run. Smiling right into his eyes in challenge, she lowered herself back to his chest and dug her chin pointedly into his pec. “Do I ever get to see what you’ve been writing to impress the girl?” she asked him, soft but hopeful.

He flushed slightly, looking away out, over the landscape of crumpled plaid blanket and bare feet and jean cuffs, toward the dawn. “Someday, pet. Not yet. But someday.”

“I can’t wait.”

* * *

_“Just because my path is different doesn’t mean I’m lost.”_

* * *

Buffy was swimming— _swimming_ , for god’s sake—when it happened. Minding her own damn business, having a nice, brisk March breaststroke in the Mediterranean, when all the sudden she was whisked away to some freezing-ass manor somewhere in what felt like a polar region—in her bikini!—and found herself face-to-face with some bitch with short, black hair, a tight, white blouse with the ends tied around her waist, a huge-ass barnacle of a necklace, with flashing, death-wish eyes. 

She was carrying an axe. The moment Buffy appeared, said axe streaked for her head. 

Buffy cross-blocked the shaft automatically, just shy of her scalp. “So, I’m guessing you want a fight? That time of the month, or...”

The woman dove at her, deftly turning her wrist to break Buffy’s hold, and swung the crescent blade in a wide, flat, controlled arc. She’d had some training, it seemed. 

Great. Nice to come at something like this unarmed. 

Buffy dodged and rolled away. “No way we can talk about this? Or, you know, that it can wait till I at least have more clothes on?” 

From off at some great distance she could feel Spike’s alarm at her sudden disappearance, and probably at her surge of self-saving adrenaline. No time to reassure him now; or really, to communicate anything. Not that she had anything to communicate, since she had no clue what the fuck was going on. All she really had time for was dodging another swing, this one aimed for her throat. 

“How the hell did you get into my house?”

“Excellent question.” Rolling away, Buffy managed a fluid back-handspring, got to her feet. “Frankly, I’m more interested right now in getting out.” She glanced out the window. “Though, maybe not in that. Is it _snowing_ out there?” Ducked another swing. “Where _are_ we?”

“Savidge Manor, you slag.”

“Clearly somewhere savage. Wait." Recognition flooded Buffy. The accent, the word-use... "I know that one! You’re English.”

“Oh, well-spotted!” Vicious eyes darted up and down her figure. “And you’re some sort of American whore…”

Well, that was uncalled-for. “Tsk tsk. I’m not calling _you_ names, and you’re the one trying to kill me. I thought English people were s’posed to be all, you know… mannerly.” /Well… some of them/ she thought, affectionately. Spike might like this girl.

“Ever so sorry. Invasion of property by some manky slapper tends to nettle me.” 

It was weird, for the record, to hear Spike-ish words in a Wesley-like pronunciation, all wrapped in a female-voiced burrito, but Buffy didn’t have a lot of time to ponder the phenomenon. The woman had dodged under her guard and was now doing her best to get a nice stabby motion in. Buffy rolled around behind her while she was overextended, tried for a stranglehold. Missed. The bitch was fast, give her that. She recovered really quickly, swung around in a wide arc, and repositioned herself with little effort. 

Buffy was just setting her feet for a series of feint-kicks that would get her into range to make for that one inside door—maybe she could get out into some hallway or whatevs, find a weapon or something to use as a makeshift shield—when said door burst open, and _Faith_ blew into the room. And stared.

Buffy stared back. Holy shit, did Faith look different. Like… What the hell. Her hair was pulled up, and she was wearing completely different makeup, and she had on this bustier thing, and… 

“Gigi, what…”

Wow, she even _sounded_ different. Almost believably English, and… 

/Oh. Oh, crap; this is Faith’s mark! What the hell am _I_ doing here, if…/ 

“Oh, pay it no mind, Hope, sweet. This… _woman_ showed up in my room when I was on my way to the bath. I thought I’d kill her and then I could join you…”

/‘Hope’? And, hold up. _Join_ you?/

Faith’s eyes darted to Buffy’s, away. “Showed up?”

“She simply appeared. I assume some sort of magick was involved. Clearly she’s an invader. She might be one of those Slayers you’d mentioned. The ones who are after all of us, want to force us all to be a part of their Organization…”

/Okay… If you’re trying to talk us up, Faith, it’s clearly not working./

“She’s a damn good fighter, either way. But I almost had her.” The woman’s eyes went coquettish. “It’s an unfortunate interruption. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

/Oh. Oh, _damn_. So… that’s the way you’re going to get this chick on our side, Faith? Just… wow./ Not that Buffy supposed it wasn’t, you know, a workable way to get on someone’s good side, but still. Jeez. 

Faith’s eyes narrowed, though she still didn’t exactly look directly at Buffy. “She’s not armed.”

British bitch took a swipe at Buffy's scalp, necessitating a duck. “I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

The taut shoulders relaxed. “It’s not a fair fight, then, is it Gigi. If she’s a Slayer, and you want to know if you can beat other Slayers, it seems a poor contest.” God, it was weird to hear Faith sound all British-y. “You should make it a real fight. Let me have a go.” She slipped then, and for a moment, actually sounded like herself. _“Mano a mano.”_

The slip registered. ‘Gigi’s eyes narrowed. “Sans weapons, is it?”

Faith had recovered, straightening and tilting her head with something that looked like reserved poise. “Why not? Let’s see what this one has up her sleeve when she’s challenged by someone who’s had the same training.”

A considered pause. “Very well.”

The suspicion was still there. Why didn’t Faith see it? This Genevieve Savidge was going to watch them fight, see if they knew each other; oh crap… /Faith, you’re so gonna blow your cover…/ But Faith was already sauntering toward her, the message flickering in her eyes. Questions like, ‘What the hell are you doing here, B?’ warring with, ‘Let’s get you out of her sight so we can talk,’ and yeah. Shit. Either way, they were going to have to figure it out. 

The problem with this whole thing was, it was pretty much impossible to hide that they’d fought each other before. The dealio was, fighting with Faith was a lot like fighting with Spike in some ways. No one really out for blood. The moves easily read, easily countered. The edge there, the blood-pumping thrill of knowing you were fighting an equal, a true match. And, like Spike, Faith was more of a brawler in attitude. In fact, Faith’s style was in many ways more instinctive than his, since Spike had had a hundred years to seek out training in god alone knew how many styles of martial arts, boxing, sword-fighting, and what-have-you, while Faith had mostly learned what she knew on the streets, in prison, and by osmosis over a few months under the tutelage of sporadic Watcher-exposure. 

But there was another and far more profound a difference. Buffy couldn’t always predict Faith the way she could Spike. Faith wasn’t a vamp, for one, so no tinglies. Buffy couldn’t… feel her. Or, rather, she could, but it felt more like… Like being pushed away, not pulled toward. Like magnets with the same polarity instead of opposites. Which meant sometimes she knew what her sister-Slayer would do, because they were so alike… but sometimes she had no clue. Like she was fighting a blank area, rather than an opposing force. 

Faith was always, would always be an unknown quantity. And, in some ways, there was a kind of… inherent distrust beating at Buffy’s veins when it came to fighting her sister. One might think that would be more the case with a vampire; a sensation at the neck and spine that said, ‘Don’t trust this one, it’s a predator, it’s after you, it wants to kill you’… but not so. She was _made_ to take vampires. She knew how to handle them. It was in her blood, in her instincts. She _got_ vampires, felt aroused to her top condition by them, made fully alive and pushed into her element by the simple fact of their existence. She knew her place in the hierarchy of biological classification when it came to vamps; where she stood in the food chain, in the periodic table of demons. She was on top. She was not threatened. She was… activated, trusted where they were and where she should be, with them. 

They were her reason to exist.

With another Slayer… she was exposed, at a very primitive level. There was no place, in the tabulation of her instincts, in which to slot a Faith. No spot to settle her sister in her cellular recognition, no appropriate position for Faith in her instinctive mental classification when they met, when they clashed, when they tussled, sparred, spoke. The food chain was disrupted, the hierarchy shaken up, the periodic table began to explode in long chemical chain-reactions. 

The baby Slayers under Buffy’s command were one thing. They registered as… somehow less-than. Unthreatening. They existed… on down the Line. 

Faith…

Faith had always registered differently. Faith was the real deal. She was…

She was the authentic holder of the Line. Buffy was… illegitimate, now. The Line clung to Buffy as the previously original vessel of that power, but she was no longer its legitimate receptacle. Faith, on an instinctive level, must surely—and deservedly—resent Buffy for competing with her for that top spot. And Buffy… 

She resented Faith for muddying up her own senses. Because in her mind, in her most innate, knee-jerk places, it still seemed like there should be only _one_. Just one; like the Highlander or something. And Buffy had been totally used to being the It girl, in every pore and corpuscle of her.

Faith?

Faith had never gotten that experience, never felt that feeling. Never gotten her due. Except maybe once, for a little while, when Buffy had been dead. But Faith had been stuck in prison during that time, and…

God, no wonder Faith instinctively begrudged her her place. “Hey. You’re good… ‘Hope’, was it?”

Faith’s eyes flashed in swift gratitude for the aid in maintaining her cover. “Same to you. Who the hell _are_ you?”

Buffy managed a swift shrug as she dodged a lightning-fast roundhouse Faith telegraphed from about a mile behind her, probably on purpose. “That would be telling. I don’t even know why I’m here, so forgive me if I don’t start telling everyone I see who I am.” Hopefully that would get across that she had no fucking clue right now what the hell was going on. Though, one might suppose, based on her wet hair and oh-so-un-fightworthy attire, that she had truly been doing not-remotely-Slayery things when she’d been transported here. “Wouldn’t mind a hot bath, though, if anyone’s offering…”

“You’re not invited, slag,” ‘Gigi’ informed her from the sidelines, and there was a particular snap to her tones as she watched the match. Her eyes, focused on Faith, flashed through, as Buffy glanced over, about six different emotions in a second. Most of them were pretty rage-y. 

“Huh. Crappy hospitality. Aren’t English people supposed to be hospitable?”

“The bathing situation was meant to be a private affair,” Faith answered, and really, her Britishness was on point. Spike would be proud by association. Jeez. Faith should come back after this and do the accent in front of him. Buffy had hung around _two_ British guys for the better part of the last eight years of her life, and it had rubbed off exactly zilch. Nada. And look at this chick. Two weeks of lessons or something, maybe less, and boom. 

Hardcore chameleon, Faith, when she put her mind to something. /You seriously wanted that passport, didn’t you, girlfriend?/

“Hope, would you please stop toying with our visitor and do away with her, so we can get on with our afternoon? The water must be getting cold.” Gigi was sounding seriously pouty. And dang. Maybe it was starting to get obvious that the fight was kind of… bloodless. 

Faith huffed out a breath. Shot Buffy a significant look. And her eyes flickered toward the windows behind them. 

They had circled the room three times by this point, so Buffy caught the drift quickly enough. She just had to hope that Faith knew what she was doing. That they weren’t up, like, five floors or something, and that they’d land on something soft. Anyway, it would give them a second away from prying eyes—and ears—to figure out a battle plan. “She’s right. We should finish this.” Lifting her hands, Buffy made a grab for Faith’s throat. 

Faith went with it. Pivoted them, hands shooting to Buffy’s neck in turn. They swung together. Veered. Spun. And pitched through the vast wall of glass, Buffy-first.

Toppling backward through panes of beveled, French-cut glazework to the tune of a shattering cacophony, was seriously not Buffy’s idea of a wonderful pastime. Still, best to just close the eyes to keep the shards out and roll with it. Of course, that added to the whole thrilling mystery, falling into nothingness with your eyes shut, the watery light of an early spring day in chilly, March-y, who-knew-where Britain beating at closed eyelids as you plunged heart-stoppingly through space…

The stinging _smack_ of landing back-first in water was far less painful, for instance, than landing on concrete would have been, or paving stones, and a heck of a lot less pokey than a hedge or something. It still drove the wind out of a person; and from whatever height it still felt a lot like hitting the ground. And okay; gasping for breath when you were underwater was never a good plan. 

Buffy had drowned before. Hence, getting water in her lungs tended to bring up incredibly negative memories. Which was probably why, when Faith pulled her up, gasping and choking, and did something incomprehensible, like keep her hands around Buffy’s throat and shake her, she lost it and threw a wild punch to get the crazy bitch off so she could stagger away. 

Right then, all she could manage to think about was breathing. If thinking was really even the right word. Which it really wasn’t. It was more like reacting very strongly. 

And then Faith was back in her face; so of course Buffy found herself swinging again, on total autopilot as she scrambled away, up out of the heated pool, and she was so ready to fight even if she was still gasping and choking. 

And then somehow they were under the eaves of the huge (manor? house? building?), up against some sort of winter-bare shrubbery, and Faith was hissing, “Chill, B. She can’t see us anymore from the window. You okay?”

/Oh. A show. It was a show. Okay. Okay. Alright. A show./ “Just…” _Gasp_. “Don’t touch me.” _Choke_. “For a sec.” _Cough_. She couldn’t breathe, and fuck, it was cold out here. Like forty-something degrees, and a little windy, and… She spat some water and phlegm, which, yummy, and tried not to remember the feeling of dying.

“Oh. Shit, B. I forgot. You got drowned once, right?”

Buffy didn’t have the energy to dignify that with a response. After all, it was pretty personal history for all included. It was Faith’s goddamned _genesis_.

Still struggling thickly for breath through rivulets of water, Buffy found herself reaching out, automatically, for her lifeline to Spike. It would steady her, give her strength, buoyancy, verve; something to cling to. 

The link was distant as hell, stretching away off to her left, which she supposed was probably southward-ish—a terribly strained, long-distance connection—but it was there. Same world, same dimension, and that was all that mattered. 

He was there, of course, immediately, and tugging; that feeling that said, ‘You okay, where are you, what the bloody hell is going on?’

She wished like hell she could answer. A reassuring wave was the best she could do. She hoped it wasn’t a lie, though at least in this exact instant she was in no _mortal_ danger. /Didn’t drown, no axes coming at me. Life is good./

“What the hell were you doing, anyway?” Faith touched Buffy’s hair briefly so that she almost shied away in surprise. Nodded at her bikini. “Tanning or some shit? Swimming? It can’t be that much hotter wherever the hell you’re living, this time of year, unless you’re in South America or some damn thing…” And, to Buffy’s new and uncomfortable awareness, Faith did a slightly more thorough body scan. “Or did you get interrupted when you were doing a Swimsuit Edition for Hot, Blond, and Wiry?” 

Buffy managed a short, gasping inhale without coughing, threw her sister Slayer a gelid look. “He watches from the deck. And you’re one to talk.” She managed a glare for the whole messy, wet, now-straggly updo and pool-damaged makeup, the seriously laid-back but also incredibly high-class attire. Talk about basically a thigh-length robe, but, what was this? Silk? “Please tell me you didn’t…” _Gasp_. “…Convert Tonya with bathtub cuddles…”

Faith chuckled dismissively. “Tonya was more of a bang in the stairwell type. Gigi’s… Well.” A lascivious look crossed Faith’s all-too-mobile lips, and her expressive eyes smoldered pointedly. “Let’s just say the girl has expensive tastes. But I think I’m making headway. Not a bad gig.” She smirked then. “Champagne, nice clothes… _Really_ nice food. And the girl’s hot. Seriously worse ways to earn a passport.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and decided that for now she so not was going to spend too much time thinking about the past, or any wagers whatsoever with her all-too-perceptive vampire beau. At least her lungs had mostly recovered. “Please for the love of God, keep a record of exactly how many times Giles polishes his glasses when you make your official report…”

“Shit, she’s coming. Fuck, B, what the hell are we gonna do with you? How did you even _get_ here?”

Buffy snapped into a fighting pose. “Like I know,” she hissed back. “I just showed up! How do you wanna handle this? I can take off, you can say you scared me off, or…” She made a feint toward Faith’s left ear, if only to make it look like they’d been duking it out down here this entire time.

“Hell, no; you’d freeze to death out here in that shit.” Faith’s whisper was almost inaudible as she swung again, followed up with a swift lateral kick to the kidneys that would have made contact if Buffy hadn’t blocked with her own shin. 

/We’re gonna be locked in an endless combat, here on this bitch’s property, till the end of time, because we can’t actually do anything to break the stalemate without blowing Faith’s cover or putting me in danger or…/

/Well, at least it’s keeping me warm./ It was freezing as fuck out here. Big change, to go between early sixties to mid-forties when you were soaking wet; especially with all this moisture in the air. And did it have to be so damn _windy_ in England?

“I _trusted_ you! Your name isn’t even Hope Lyonne, is it? Viscount Avalon my ass! You heartless slag…” ‘Gigi’, rounding the corner, was in a thorough snit. 

Faith paused mid-jab. Lowered her hands. “Well, shit, B. I think I got found out.”

Buffy sighed and dropped her own fists. /End of permanent combat charade, at least./ She turned with Faith to face the enraged woman scorned. “Sorry about that. In my defense it was totally not my idea to drop in.”

“Yeah.” Faith sounded pissed. “When I find out who did it I’m gonna kill the bastard. Talk about wrecking all my hard work…”

“You’re _American?_ I knew you weren’t entirely… That story about having had an American tutor might’ve explained a bit, but this… You unbelievable, lying minger!”

Faith leaned over a little toward Buffy. “You’ve been doin’ one of ‘em for a long-ass time, B. You know that one?”

“He doesn’t explain the insults to me. I know it’s a bad one, though.”

“Gee, thanks. I got _that_.” Faith stepped forward, hands up. “Listen. Gigi…”

“You don’t get to call me that anymore, you whore! Are you shagging this bitch as well?”

Buffy had the surreal experience right then of hearing herself and Faith scoff at the same thing at the same time, but in two completely different ways. She opened her mouth, though once she did she realized she had no idea what she would have said that wouldn’t have been, probably, really bad un-mixy Buffy word salad that would probably have ended up really hurting Faith’s feelings; completely inadvertently, but that was just how Buffy and words worked. 

Luckily, Faith beat her to the punch. “You know, that’s just a really long and complicated story. I’m gonna sum it up by saying, no. Mostly because I’m her type except I don’t come with the right parts, and we have that uneasy Slayer-territorial thing, so instead we just butt heads like sisters with bad PMS. That about sum it up, B?”

Buffy found herself clearing her throat and feeling extremely wild-eyed at being so unexpectedly put on the spot. “That’s a… uh… wildly oversimplified…” Saw Faith’s amused expression. /Oh, jeez./ “Sure. Why not.”

“Oversimplified? Huh. Maybe we should get those drinks sometime, huh?” Faith swung back to Genevieve, amusement warring with interest on her face. “Okay… now what?”

The Englishwoman didn’t waste time. She just dove at Faith. “Now I kill you.”

/Well, crap./ 

Considering this crazy woman still had an axe and Faith was just as unarmed as Buffy had been, it seemed kind of dumb to let the thing go on the way it was. “You want a hand?” she called as she watched. “Or do you wanna do this on your own?” Not that Faith wasn’t holding her own just fine, but you know. It was kind of personal, this fight. Best to offer before just jumping in and all that.

“Oh, you know,” Faith called back as she and her lover _du jour_ circled the pool, “if you see me getting my ass kicked, feel free to jump in.”

“Okay.” Buffy rubbed her wet arms briskly and, irritated by freezing drips, made an attempt to squeeze some chill water out of her hair. “What if I just want to warm up?”

“Distract… uh! the bitch with some jumping jacks or some shit, B!” Faith was doing a pretty decent job with the whole block-and-circle thing, was even getting a few of those deadly kicks of hers in. They had made it around the pool, Buffy following them at a short distance so that she could close if necessary. 

“Doubt my boobs are big enough for that to be a distraction,” she opined as she watched her sister do a quick dive-roll away from a chop meant for her head, come back in with a sweep to the feet, fetch up behind ‘Gigi’ so the bitch had to turn fast and make an overextended sort of backswing. 

“Oh, don’t worry. With what you’re wearing, it’d work.” Give credit where it was due, Faith was not only no longer making any bones about her bisexuality, now that she had been thoroughly exposed, she was also making excellent use of terrain and her brawler’s instincts, sans weapon. While the noblewoman was still recovering from her dufus-y swing—that whole thing was just totally a rookie move—Faith grabbed some potted thing, threw it at the bitch’s arm to knock it off-course, then delivered a really handy uppercut that knocked the woman backward by her chin. 

Buffy had to admire that sort of ingenuity. But then, she had always admired Faith’s fighting style. It was just a step beyond her own DIY thing; totally free and inventive. And completely lacking in anything like a concept of fair play, which of course made it incredibly dangerous. 

It was basically like fighting a vamp. /And, okay, maybe Faith did have something. Because back in the day, I really, really liked sparring with her. Maybe for the same reason I like fighting vamps. For the no-holds-barred unpredictability. The challenge. The adrenaline. The stimulation. The…/

/You know what? _Fine_ , Spike. There might’ve been something there. But I was a kid. I had teen hormones going, plus the Slayer rush thing. It doesn’t mean anything. I probably would’ve experimented with anyone and anything to take the edge off, and Faith would technically have been safer than…/

Well, to be fair, along about that time Faith would have been the hell of a lot safer than the person she’d ended up trying, but that was a whole other saga. And also, not yet available, since the entire reason Faith was even a Slayer at all was ultimately because of who she _had_ ended up trying. Which, well… All that guilt still played a lot into her relationship with Faith. /And I really need to get over that. Even _Angel_ thinks I’m holding onto too much there./

Even the best brawler was going to slip, eventually, head-to-head against someone with a weapon like an axe. Reach alone would wear you down. Finally, Faith tripped slightly; on a stray branch. Stumbled against what looked like a birdbath or plinth or something. The axe came down for her shoulder. Buffy dodged in, caught the irate noblewoman’s arms, deflected the swing long enough for Faith to get her footing again. “Sorry, had to interrupt. No offense; it’s just, if you whacked her arm off I’d have to listen to her whine about how hard it is to ride a motorcycle one-handed, and how much it sucks to punch guys with just the one fist.” When the Savidge ripped the axe away, tried for her head instead, she dodged, and the axe embedded itself in the tree behind her. “Nice aim. And besides. Aside from my guy, she’s like the only really decent challenge in the world for me.”

‘Gigi’ snarled. “Just who the bloody hell _are_ you?”

Faith reappeared at her side, grinning. “Don’t know if we should tell her, B. It’s kind of like waving a red flag. But thanks for the kudos.”

“Just the truth.” Buffy stepped aside again as ‘Gigi’ let go of her axe handle to lunge for Faith, hands outstretched. 

Once they were grappling hand-to-hand it was pretty clear who would win. Buffy left them to it. And noticed out of the corner of her eye that someone was approaching them, from around the corner of the house. Red-haired guy. With… Oh, shit. Power crackling in his hands. “Faith, wrap it up. We have a problem…”

“Now you’ll pay! Roden!”

“B, watch out! That bastard’s a…”

There was a rage-y scream, the _thud_ of a kick, an awful, sick _tchunk_ , a gurgle… and then Faith was saying, “Oh _God_ , oh _God_ , B, I didn’t _mean_ to…” over and over. Buffy pulled herself away from the spectacle of the oncoming man-witch, and saw…

/Oh, crap./ Faith was damn near wringing her hands, had that look on her face Buffy hadn’t seen since the wharf. /Flashback to seventeen./ 

‘Gigi’… was hanging off of the axe blade, where it stood embedded in the tree-trunk. She had apparently been kicked onto it, and oh, fuck. With Faith’s history, reminding her that it was an accident was so not going to help her. 

Buffy did the only thing she could think of. She went to her sister. Grabbed the chilled, wet silk of the robe, yanked hard to pull Faith’s gaze away from the dead woman’s glazing-over eyes, the blood bubbling from her lips. Forced Faith’s frozen, wild stare to meet hers _. “Look_ at me. Dammit, look. You think I don’t know. But I’ve been there too, since then, okay? And this _isn’t_ the same. It was a fight; she was going after you! And anyway, there’s nothing we can do about it right now. That guy’s coming. I don’t know who he is, but he’s got power…”

“You’re right,” Faith whispered. “He’s got power.” Something lit in her eyes; something desperate, hopeful. And she was tearing away to run _toward_ the approaching magick-y guy. _“Help_ her, Roden! Bring her back! I didn’t mean…”

/Oh, shit…/ Faith had lost it. And now it was like everything was happening in slow-motion. As Faith drew even with the redheaded guy, his hair drained of color. Turned black in tendrils from forehead to scalp, and /Oh, shitshitshit…/ 

“I won’t be bringing her back.” Courtly tones covered what sounded like the faintest remains of an Irish brogue.

“But… you’re her Watcher…”

/Okay, what?/

“Oh, but I think you are by far the better candidate, are you not, Hope? If that is indeed your name. But first… look what you have done. By some connection, it seems, you have located the Queen, helped me to find her so that I could bring her here. So long and so carefully hidden from any moves on the board, and now exposed…” And black, magick-filled eyes arrowed over to lock on Buffy with terrifying hunger.

/Serious ‘well-shit’ moment./ “I’m no queen. And why the hell did you _bring_ me here?”

“Oh, shit,” Faith whispered. _“You’re_ the assassin.”

/Shitshitshit…/

Ignoring Faith for a moment, ‘Roden’ sidled around her to approach Buffy. “A bit underdressed, aren’t you, Queen of the Slayers? Where _were_ you hiding? Brazil? The Bahamas… Inquiring minds want to know…”

/Oh goddammit./ “That’s a state secret.”

“Yes, it seems so. But no matter. _Téigh go fóill, téigh ciúin.”*_

Buffy had never heard, did not recognize the language the guy was speaking. It wasn’t Latin or Greek or Sumerian… but it was definitely a spell. All the sudden she found herself rigid, immobile… and even worse, it felt as if she had a gag in her mouth; made of air, but she was sure she couldn’t have spoken if she tried. 

Very, very slowly and with terrifying, ponderous solemnity, she fell. Like a tree that had been cut from its roots, and no way to break her fall. She landed on one shoulder to stare over at a stunned Faith and the warlock with no way to help herself or intervene. 

“What the _hell_ did you do to her, you bastard?”

“Silenced her. Now, let us discuss the future, Hope. With Genevieve out of the way… She was meant to be an assassin of her own kind. I think, though, you’d be a far better, don’t you? What say you? Will you work with me, or would you rather end like your queen there; bound, gagged, rendered nil…”

Buffy struggled against her invisible bonds as Faith stared at the man in clear, stunned horror. Anyone who didn’t know Faith Lehane would only see anger, maybe a kind of unsettled calculation… but Buffy had become kind of an expert at reading people who buried a shit-ton of feelings under a mask of cool bravado. A lot of that had actually started right here with this woman, when they were both teenagers, so…

Faith may look pissed right now, but she was mostly shaken and terrified, all under a very thin veneer. She’d just inadvertently caused the death of a lover. Said lover might have been in essence a job, but that didn’t mean she didn’t care. Not to mention, said death had to have brought up a whole hell of a lot for her regarding her past, when it came to accidental losses in the middle of a fight. If anyone knew how that felt, Buffy did. How it could fuck you up inside, turn you inside out, throw every perspective off. And here was a guy propositioning her to join the dark side while she was raw—just like before—asking her if she wouldn’t rather just kill the people who represented the part of herself she could just as easily hate, than keep on trying to do the right thing. Rather than continue to fight the uphill battle that was believing in herself.

/God; you can do this, Faith. You can believe in yourself. Don’t give in. God knows… I _know_. I _know_ now. I was there, when I thought I killed Katrina. When I thought I was worthless because of what I was doing with Spike. When I thought… But you are so worth _all_ of it. Don’t let him twist you!/ Dammit, if she could just speak, she’d tell Faith what she’d told Spike, once. ‘I _believe_ in you.’ It had kept him going, through torture, through god alone knew what psychological bullshit. 

But she couldn’t speak. All she could do was stare the words out across the frozen ground, while the frost seeped into her naked shoulder, making her shiver.

Faith’s eyes drifted her way. Started up, toward the dead Gigi. 

/No! Don’t look at her! Look at me! Keep your eyes on me. I _believe_ in you, Faith! Giles believes in you! We _all_ do! Stick with us; we’ll help you get past this!/

Faith’s gaze came back. Locked on hers. Held. And thank god, something must have gotten through, because after a moment, she nodded; just a little. Hardened. And turned back to Roden. “Sorry, Voldemort; no can do. I’ve got peeps already. And I learned my lesson about trading down to the dark side a long-ass time ago.” 

Buffy exhaled in relief. She had no idea who ‘Voldemort’ was, but clearly Faith had been strong enough this time to tell the bastard to fuck off. /You tell him, girl!/

Roden’s face suffused with red under the black tendrils. He pointed his fingers at Faith. _“Éirigh, lámh na cloiche!”*_

A small, localized earthquake rumbled underneath Buffy’s ear, which was mildly terrifying since there were no tables to get under, no doorways to stand in, and the bred-in-the-bone instincts of a Cali girl said she was about to die if she didn’t take cover yesterday. Not that this was anything major. It felt like maybe a three-pointer, if that; but still. Being frozen in place—almost literally frozen—while a quake happened around you was not something that inspired confidence in the native Californian. 

Over there next to Captain Magick, Faith toppled to the grass. Which was kind of nuts, since she had to have been in a quake by now, and how had that tiny thing made her lose her footing, if…

Then the _thing_ burst from the grass. 

It kind of looked like a hand. Made of stone.

_“Glac griem!_ _”*_

Okay, also, the hand was now in a fist, and it was holding Faith. Like, as in, it could squeeze at any minute, and this was getting less chill by the moment. Not only because Buffy was fighting, in her immobilized state, not to have flashbacks over the mental vision of her buddy the Groosalugg, being squeezed to death in a giant tentacle while she...

And this was Faith.  
  
Now shivering almost uncontrollably, Buffy struggled harder against her unseen bonds. Watched Faith do the same against the rough, stone fingers holding her. And saw this Roden guy lift a phone to his ear, eyes and hair still streaked with black. “Yes. Got her. The Queen is in check. And we also have a bishop, I think? Excellent. You may come to collect your new pawns. Yes indeed. Twilight is coming.”

Buffy stilled in shock, horror running through her now in radiating vines of fear. /Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck…/ Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse... they got _bad._

As the warlock lowered his phone, turned back to them to smile an eerie smirk of triumph… he folded very abruptly as if from a blow from behind. As he crumpled he revealed a very familiar, tweed-wearing figure, come pounding around the pool. _“Aufer a mulieribus captivitatem!"*_

Buffy felt the gag of air fade from her mouth, her body come free. She was still frozen as hell, and moved like a shivering, unbend-y wreck as she stumbled to her feet, staggered toward Faith… but she could move. Relief was a living thing, and where the hell had _Giles_ come from? 

Faith, extricating herself from the now-open fist of stone—it looked like nothing so much as a piece of very odd statuary, now—stumbled back, open-mouthed as the Watcher hove in between her and Roden, hand out. 

“Leave them be, you cretin!”

Buffy may have had her issues with her former Watcher, but she had to admit to being very glad to see him right now.

“Oh, I hardly think you’re a match for me,” the warlock sneered. “You’re a mere dabbler; I can see it in your eyes. You’ve no real power, no real…”

“Oh, you’d be very much surprised.”

“…Ballocks,” the Irish warlock went on with a smirk. “White hats like you will never do what it takes. And you cannot destroy me, if you must know, without destroying the lot of you…” His hands had begun to glow with dark, crackling energy. 

Giles merely smiled a little and tilted his head in that way that said he was about to get seriously dangerous. “You have _no_ idea what I’ve done in my time. And thank you very much indeed for the tip.” 

The ball of energy in Roden’s hand turned into a column of flame. He reached back as if to fling it right in Giles’ face.

The tiny smile vanished, and Giles’ eyes went uber-hard. _“Caveam eum.”*_ And Roden was suddenly trapped inside some kind of weird, glass-looking cube of air with his fireball. 

Which exploded mid-throw against the wall, fell at his feet. And began to burn. 

Inside the cubicle, Roden began to shriek. 

Buffy watched, horrified, sure Giles was going to take the cube down, get the guy out before he burned alive. And was stunned when Giles spoke one word. 

_“Urite.”*_

Inside the cube, the flames seemed to leap inside of Roden.

Which was approximately when he… well, exploded.

“Holy fuck,” Faith breathed.

“Oh my God…” Buffy heard herself whisper. “What…”

Giles turned back to them, his eyes dark and strange. “Heroes are meant to preserve human life. It’s on us who support them to take them, sometimes. Because you cannot pay for that mercy. Not and survive. It’s why you need us.” His eyes lifted to touch Buffy’s briefly, then focused on Faith’s. “Both of you, if you’re not to crumble.” 

Faith was clearly floored. She stared. Turned back to Buffy, who was just as flabbergasted. 

/Is that why… Ben? And then… Does he think now that’s why I’m… with Spike? Because he has no idea what it does to Spike to… Oh, God; or he thinks I’ve gotten lost because I’ll…/

/Well. At least he wants to help Faith now. Because she’s needed it since… Well. Since./ Faith might not be as freezing as her on the outside, but she was shaken as hell on the inside. Buffy hadn’t seen her falling apart like this since that day, at seventeen, when she’d been barely holding it together over the body of a bystander during a fight with a bunch of vampires on a wharf. “Faith…”

“No, B… It’s okay, I…”

Buffy drew closer. Touched her arm, shivering and aware she was probably blue-lipped, but ignoring the incipient hypothermia for a moment. “I believe in you, Faith.”

That jerked dark eyes to hers for a moment… and something broke in her sister-Slayer. “Hell, B…”

“I really do. Okay? This… That… It wasn’t your fault. And it doesn’t touch you. But I meant what I said. I’ve _been_ there, since.” She drilled her gaze in, let Faith see it. “I mean it. If you need to talk…”

Faith, for a wonder, didn’t cover. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Sure. I’ll… get in touch.”

“Okay.”

The sound of a distant helicopter pierced the cloud-cover. /Crap./ Without removing her gaze from Faith’s, Buffy directed her next words to the other member of the group. “Giles, he called someone. Before you got here. Mentioned ‘Twilight’, and putting ‘the queen’ in check, who’s been in hiding, and also getting ‘a bishop’, which I think means me and Faith. I figure we should be out.”

“Good Lord.” 

They moved as one to hustle away from the smoking cubicle with the obscured remnants of exploded warlock. As they headed for a little copse of well-tended trees over on the other side of the manicured gardens, Giles’ eyes narrowed. “Buffy, you look quite frozen…”

“Yeah, well.” Buffy shrugged a little as they jogged, despite her advanced state of near-frostbite. “I wasn’t exactly dressed for March in England, or pool-wrestling…”

Faith hopped the hedge, and they all huddled inside a little gazebo for cover. “Sorry about that, B," she murmured a little dully. "Couldn’t think of anything else.”

“No, it’s cool. I just… How did you know we needed help, Giles?”

Giles’ mouth morphed to a hard, thin line. “Spike phoned Willow. Told her you’d gone, very abruptly. That he felt like you were far to the north, and that you were extremely cold. And fighting. And that you were near a very familiar Slayer. Put all together… She knew of Faith’s mission, so she phoned me in turn, sent me along.”

/Well, William!/ Spike had gotten a hell of a lot more out of their two-way radio than she could ever have given him credit for. 

“Handy to have a vamp around, all tuned in to your vibe…” Faith’s eyes touched her neck briefly. “I got nipped once, but it didn’t give me any special connection.”

Buffy could see the marks on Faith’s neck from here. /And, let’s just say, I recognize the handiwork./ Put that together with the very careful way in which Faith was avoiding naming names, and the slight _thing_ in her voice, and it was pretty clear who had done the ‘nipping’. “You have to, um… Well, there has to be more than just nibbling or sucking involved for it to work that way.”

“Please, could we keep the conversation impersonal while my ears are able to hear words… _Aperiam in porta…_ ”*

“Yeah, well, the guy in question wasn’t in it to do more than drain me, for sure, so…”

/Oh. So it was Angelus, not Angel. Good to know./ “Yeah. I mean, that was the Master, for me. When he came back he had zero hold over me; because when he bit me it was all just about knocking me off. There has to be a whole claim-y thing, unspoken or no, for you to get the perks…”

Faith had recovered a little from earlier events, obviously, because her voice turned slightly sultry… and very, very interested. “Do any of those perks include, uh, you know, special nookie benefits? Extended play, or double the fun for him so things last longer, or…”

“That was never really a problem even before, but let’s just say feeling the other person when they…”

“Please, for the love of God, don’t finish that sentence, or I will close this portal and leave you both here to freeze to death. There is only so much a father figure can be asked to withstand.”

Buffy smiled slightly, though she did decide to take pity. She was mad at Giles… but maybe not that mad. “Giles, surely you wouldn’t leave either of us here to deal with _that_ …”

Giles winced as a huge, troop-carrying black helicopter landed in the middle of the lawn they had just left… and promptly disgorged about ten or twelve soldiers in the kind of black Kevlar Buffy had last seen among the Initiative. Behind them, stepping slowly out of the belly of the beast behind what looked to be a female officer with lieutenant’s bars, was a big man with broad shoulders, wearing a hood and a mask. 

Seriously. A literal hood and mask.

He exchanged words with the lieutenant, nodded briefly; the vaguest inclination of his head. The troops streamed across the grass, a third of them heading toward the smoke-filled cube of meat that was the former Roden, another third jogging over to inspect Gigi, still pinned and sagging against the tree, the last third fanning out over the lawn to search for ‘the queen and bishop’, probably.

“This is quite serious indeed,” Giles murmured, and grabbed a handful of herbs out of his pocket. Tossed them on the planks that made up the gazebo floor. Pulled out a crystal. 

“Thanks for finally realizing it,” Buffy answered dryly. “They’re, um, coming this way.”

“Bloody hell,” Giles muttered, sounding remarkably like Spike as he did so, and turned back to his magicks. _“Aperiam in porta,”_ he repeated. _“Dividat in duo.*_ Buffy, when you step through, focus on your link with Spike, and the portal should take you home. Faith, hold onto my hand, and we’ll return to Russia. _Incipiunt.”*_

A glowing double-arc of a portal exploded into being before them; like seeing double, or in a weird echo. It was nothing like what Willow would make, not showy or anything, and very small… but then again, Willow wouldn’t try to make one that went two places at once, either. They would have to sort of dive in headfirst, but not for the first time, Buffy found herself wondering if there wasn’t something to be said for experience and the workarounds people came up with when they had less raw power and learned things through sheer, dogged skill. 

“Over there! See that glow! Someone’s using magick stuff!”

“B-Squad, go!”

“Time to leave!”

Faith shot Buffy a look as she grabbed Giles’ hand. “See you on the flipside, B.”

“Catch you later, Faith.”

Faith and Giles dove in, Giles without a backward glance. Le sigh.

Buffy half-turned to glance back before she dove in, something niggling. The approaching squad was closing, but… Okay. There was something weirdly familiar about the way hood-and-mask dude stood. He had his hands clasped behind his back and his legs spread like a military person, but… There was just something about him that… tickled at her brain. 

But no time to figure it out now. Giles would close the portal any second.

She dove in, praying it would bring her home, and not drop her somewhere in another dimension, or that she wouldn’t end up freezing to death even worse in, like the steppes of Russia or something (she’d heard they were cold, whatever ‘steppes’ were). 

And tumbled out the other side, onto the relatively balmy beach just in front of her porch in Almerimar, to find herself almost instantly enveloped in arms of an utterly, absolutely freaked-out vampire.

The sense of _mate_ slammed into her full-force as Spike landed basically on top of her, muttering her name and wrapping himself around her body, and okay; it was insane to feel him like this. He was freakishly warm-feeling against her sodden, shivering, frozen skin, and… “Bloody fucking Christ, Buffy, where _were_ you? Antarctica? You feel like a sodding ice cube, get the fuck inside, Jesus…” And before she even knew what was happening he had her up in his arms.

“S…Spike, I can w…walk…” she chattered.

“Course you can, just let me… Fuck…” His face was buried in her neck, and he had her installed in the couch, the plaid blanket from the back wrapped around her, then him, every limb and part of him like the most completely inextricable vampire octopus. “You’re soaking wet, shaking; fucking God… all over blood…”

Buffy blinked. “I am?” She was so numb she probably could have had a hundred cuts on her and wouldn’t have felt them. “That’s p…pleasant. Sorry. Didn’t mean to w…worry you. Or bleed all over you." Like he'd care, but her brain was seriously scrambled. "It was a little n…nuts up there…”

“Just shut it, Buffy. Sodding hell, you had better stop disappearing on me or I’ll bleeding well kill you.”

“Ok…kay, but it really w…wasn’t my idea.” She let out a slow, shivery breath as the rigor in her muscles started to level off, confounded by the warmth of their home into something approaching relaxation. The abrupt alteration was almost shocking. Man, her ears were sore; inside and out. And her hair might just break off, it was so frozen. It was going to start dripping all over the arm of the couch in a minute… 

He really wasn’t going to like this. “Spike… It had something to do with those Twilight people.”

Warmish arms ratcheted tighter around her body, and he bent to tongue closed a shallow, burning slice in her numb, warming shoulder. “Tell me?” he whispered.

It made the hell of a story.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


(quote by Gerard Abrams)  
  
Just saying... In the comics, Faith very pointedly took _baths_ with this girl, while they still made no mention whatever of her being anything but straight and into hookups with guys, and they still NEVER explored the thing with her and Buffy and their past. I mean C'MOOOOOON... WTF _EVER!  
  
BATHS together.  
_I do that with my straight girlfriends all the time. NOT.  
  
Also, in the comics, Buffy tried to drown Faith when she and Faith end up in the pool, but IMO between not having talked with Faith before this (hence, she didn't know what Faith was up to / what side she was one), the PTSD of having drowned, being in the middle of a fight, etc, and all their old crap that they hadn't gotten around to working on... I get that. I definitely didn't want that in this version, so I kept some of the stimuli I assumed was behind it in this, but rerouted it, because this version of them HAS had some time to work on stuff (and will have more, later. I insist).

Oh, also, in the original story it was Wil who sent Giles after Buffy, but since Buffy's not living at the castle (and has been in hiding, which is driving the Twilight group, and Angel, nuts, no doubt, because it screws with their plans and timeline), Buffy's super lucky Spike could feel where she went, more or less, so he could tell the group she was in trouble! (You know, instead of wasting time floating around somewhere in a bug-filled spaceship. I will just never get past that. Never, in a hundred years.)

Where was I? Oh, right. Translations. (Results may vary, depending on sources, of course. I tried.)  
  
Roden's spells are all in Irish Gaelic, for reasons having to do with the character as I extrapolated him from his presentation in the comics:  
  
 _Téigh go fóill, téigh ciúin =_ Go still, go silent.

_Éirigh, lámh na cloiche! =_ Rise, hand of stone!

_Glac griem! =_ Take hold!  
  
Unsurprisingly I went for Latin with Giles:

_Aufer a mulieribus captivitatem! =_ Remove the women from captivity!

_Caveam eum! = Cage him!_

_Urite. =_ Burn. (Probably conjugated wrong, though)

_Aperiam in porta =_ open the gate

_Dividat in duo =_ divide in two

_Incipiunt_ = begin (I think that one's wrong, but when I tried to make it an imperative, the site told me it wasn't a word, so whatever. I can't conjugate Latin to save my life.)  
  
  
So, yeah. A lot happened in there, but better than nothing happening... and I'm realizing that's just how this comics translation is working out. Life, rolling along, exploded with short, sudden bursts of insanity...


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to all of you! Will give you all personalized love as time allows! Thank you for your kind words!
> 
> So, this chapter is... Ok. The beginning of a stretch of a lot of mostly just plain fun, sprinkled with a few moments of politics that are really only an excuse for nostalgia, and I really hope y'all enjoy it. I made it just for you.

_  
  
  
“Revolution is not a one-time event.”_

* * *

Willow and Xander were supposed to be coming by in a few. Faith had even agreed to stop in at some point to give their method a shot, see what she thought of the whole ‘give peace a chance’ model. She had made no mention, when she called, of what Giles’ opinion was on the subject of her going rogue with them. But then, Faith Lehane had always gone her own way, formed her own opinions; a fact for which Buffy Summers was extraordinarily grateful right now.

Willow would be portaling Faith in, though, which said enough. Faith was not asking Giles to do the honors. Either that, or she _had_ asked and Giles had not been willing to oblige her. So there was that.

The plan for the evening was to introduce the three ex-Scoobies to a few of the leaders of the local demonfolk at a small meeting Sonja had set up for them in El Ejido, let them sit in on the meet and hear how negotiations were proceeding. This event would have a twofold benefit. The demons would see that it wasn’t just Buffy and Spike talking big, if others of their Organization’s leadership were also involved by this stage. A representative of the Organization’s witches to represent the firepower of the group, and the HQ’s Watcher would do nicely for a triad of power-structure reps. 

Faith would double as ‘another Slayer’; one who would vibe to all and sundry as really high up on the food-chain, to prove that more of said bunch were in cahoots with Buffy when it came to agreeing as to their motives. Buffy was therefore super glad that Faith had randomly asked to join them, since what the demon leaders didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them No reason to tell them that this would be just as much to convince Faith, as one of their oldest—if most uneasy—allies, as it was to convince _them_. Otherwise, they’d have had to ask someone else to join; one of the Slayers more dialed into the Organization… and that would mean revealing their refuge, a move neither she nor Spike were really ready for at this stage of the game.

Faith knew all about flying under the radar. She would totally respect their need to keep their whereabouts on the downlow for the moment.

The plan for after the meeting was a little more vague. A celebratory drink somewhere, if all went well. “La Escena?” Spike suggested, his fingers playing lightly over the backs of Buffy’s arms. She was wearing one of what he liked to call her ‘demon-bait’ blouses; a backless, sleeveless affair in fuck-me red, held together essentially with string, which if she did say so herself clung nicely to what curves she did have, and outlined her stomach muscles as well. This was partially because, since it was made of that kind of thin, fluttery stuff that got kind of static-y just from walking around, it tended to sort of suck up against her body… which, by the way, had the nice side-benefit of outlining basically everything on her. Or not on her.

She wasn’t planning on fighting anything tonight. Hence, no bra. 

Well, no anything. She was going commando. The pantylines would ruin the effect of the—also very tight, and very short—faux black leather skirt… and, well. As demon-bait went, so far it seemed to be doing the trick. Her own personal demon had utterly failed to keep his hands off of her basically since she’d put the outfit on. “La Escena sounds… nice,” she agreed quietly, and tilted her head back in unconscious invitation as his fingers slid up under her hair, tickled at the nape of her neck. “You gonna get through this meeting?”

“Probably not. What the bloody hell are you trying to do to them? Convince them to _eat_ Slayers?” His fingers trembled slightly as they trailed back down along her neck, brushed lightly over the scar of his bite. 

She shivered. “If I dress like this, they’ll know I can handle myself. That I’m not worried.” /That every scar I have, I’m showing off because I’m not ashamed. I’m unafraid. I was either strong enough to invite it, or to have survived it. Which takes a whole other level of fuck-you, in the world we’re facing. That being the fuck-you of two types. The competitive, and the cooperative./ 

Both of which showed her to be a serious survivor, and a damn good negotiator. She considered both to be brag-worthy in upcoming company. 

Spike’s fingers were still moving, probably unconsciously, over her other, multilayered bite. When the next shudder came, Buffy didn’t bother forcing herself to shake it off. He wasn’t trying to seduce her. He honestly couldn’t help himself. Which was… nice. “It’s worked for me so far.” 

“Mm.” 

Now _that_ was an inarticulate sound. An, ‘I forgot to really listen to what you’re saying’ kind of noise. And he was keeping his hips studiously away from her. Which fooled no one, since, well. She could _feel_ him, now. “We gonna have to take a second before everyone gets here to settle you down, or are you gonna be able to focus?”

“Buffy,” he answered flatly, and his voice was exceedingly rough, “I have focused on exactly nothing but your nipples and the twelve-hundred-and-one sexual scenarios playing in my head since you came out of our room, and you damn well know it.”

A gratified flush played over her face; shimmered over her body as she turned to face him. Trailed her own fingers over his—admittedly equally nice—deep plum button-down. Settled her palms against his chest, just over his unbeating heart… and watched the naked lust simmer in his eyes; sparks of heated amber radiating like a storm in the blue, inside brackets of sexy kohl. “And you say _I’m_ easy.”

“Been easy for you since 1999, you mad bint. Bloody hell.” His fists were actually opening and closing on air now, as he caught the scent of her returned interest, and what the hell. Might as well settle them both down before the meet, or neither of them would have their minds on business. 

/After all; if this is all he’s thinking of, it’ll be all I’ll be thinking of, claims being what they are./ “Get over here.”

Reprieved, he crowded in close. Made a sound that was half moan of relief and half whimper of excitement, already three-quarters of the way to demon-boy as she wrapped her arms around his neck and dragged him down into a kiss. And, damn, that was an impressive hardon; one much more easily felt through his newish, thin-ish, relaxed jeans. 

/I should dress like this more often./ Also, so should he, because she could get used to the softer side of Spike. Once in a while. He was looking good right now. “I was thinking,” she told him, as she pulled away from his mouth. “This’ll be the first time in a while we’ll be at a club…” And turning away from him, she imagined some music, began to dance against his erection, grinding her ass purposefully against him. /And I never let myself do _this_ when we were there. Though, right now… really not sure why./ 

Speaking of which; yup. Could definitely feel him better through those jeans. As in, there was _definition_.

The difference apparently had its effect on him as well. Or maybe it had something to do with her lack of pantylines. Either way, Spike didn’t bother to waste time; just grabbed her up fiercely, pulled her in tight. His fingertips punched into her hips, and he was breathing hard and fast against her neck, which, damn. Spike basically had two modes when it came to sex-stuff. He was either ‘statue-guy’, not breathing at all—usually when she was doing something to him that required enormous focus, like when she was asking him to not-come, right at that exact moment—or he was breathing so hard you’d think it was actually possible for him to hyperventilate. Which should be hilarious, since he technically didn’t need to breathe at all, if she didn’t know that breathing for her guy was a totally emotional response. It was nice to know what she did to him. “Buffy…” he whispered, forehead pressed hard against the back of her neck. He loosed his hands, very briefly, but only so that his fingers trailed, just a little, over the new bites in the crooks of her elbows.

She bucked against him, completely involuntarily, and okay. So, those worked. 

The surge of _want_ poured through her to hit him full-force. “Jesus fuck,” he whispered, and he was shoving her abruptly against the back of the couch. Crowded up against her, rocking. “Say stop now, Buffy, bloody hell, say it…”

“No,” she heard herself answer, and pushed back against him. Reached behind her to fumble for his belt. 

He already had it, one-handed. She heard the jeans fall with a _whumph_. “Fuck, Slayer; gonna shag you into the cushions. Christ, let me have you…” He was pushing up her skirt, and she was there for it as his hand slid around the front, shoving the bunched-up material impatiently out of the way… and oh, god, that callus on his one finger, from writing? 

She really, _really_ loved that callus.

He was rutting up against the cleft of her ass, grinding her hard against his fingers, and to hell with it. She bent over the back of the couch and completely gave in to the moment, closed her eyes and forgot everything but the raging surge of lust and want thrumming between them. “Where. _Are_. You?” she hissed.

“Gonna have you like this in the club,” he told her very certainly. “Everyone watching. Promise you…”

/Oh God…/ It gave her an extra jolt… and she was already coming on his fingers, just thinking of…

And then he was inside her, slapping hard up against her, and oh god, oh god, oh god…

Approximately five minutes later they watched a portal open just outside their house, in front of the moonlit porch. Their clothes were back in place. Buffy, cleaned up and flushed and… more or less stable, leaned back on the heels of her hands and breathed deeply as she sagged against the back of the couch and worked on reassembling her thoughts into some sort of order that involved… Well. Thoughts, and business, and doing things and stuff. Which was tough, while Spike stood around smirking and very pointedly rubbing his fingers together. He did not exactly sniff at them, but made it very clear that he’d like to, would probably do so surreptitiously for as long as he could get away with it, because he was kind of a pig, but you know. Vampire. 

If he could do that every day he’d probably quit smoking. The dick. 

Faith appeared out of the portal. Stood backlit against the glow for a second. As the portal cut off from behind her she glanced around her; took in the beach, the house, hands on her hips. Struck out for the portico. Sidled between the chaises, made for the sliding glass door, which stood slightly ajar in welcome. “Hey. Nice place.”

“Hey. C’mon in.” /My voice sounds normal, right? Not ‘just been fucked’?/

Faith pushed the slider the rest of the way open and entered the room. And stopped dead to regard them both, where they stood near the couch in their innocent poses. Her nostrils flared slightly, and a grin popped onto her red lips, lit her sultry brown eyes. “Interrupting something?”

“No.” Spike’s answering grin was insolent. “We’re all good.”

/Crap. We should air it out in here or something./ 

Striding further into the room, wearing her normal, confident strut, Faith smirked as she took in the room. “Hell of a view out there. Nice place in here. Almost looks like Revello, but more…” She snapped her fingers once, looked around. “Where are we, anyway?”

Buffy forced herself into ‘casual and relaxed’ and out of ‘afterglow mush’. “Spain.”

“Spain. Nice.” Turning, Faith leaned back against a chair which abutted the table, one elbow cocked, and eyed Buffy up and down. “Nice top, B. Demon-bait?”

Faith was one to talk. She was basically wearing a similar outfit, only in black and covered with a skimpy leather jacket that left nothing really to the imagination. But then, when it came to presentation, Buffy and her sister-Slayer were often on the same page. 

Actually, when it came to this sort of thing, they had always been on that same page. False advertising, then go in for the kill when the dufuses were still mindlessly slavering. “Yeah. You know. Why bother pretending. I’ve been where I’ve been; done what I’ve done. They can make of it what they want.”

Faith nodded briefly. “You’ve already hooked one demon, looks like,” she answered, eyes jerking knowingly away to give Spike an appreciative once-over. 

Spike leered. “I’m on retainer.”

“Lucky.”

Okay, that was open-ended, the way Faith’s eyes slid over the both of them. Who exactly was lucky? The retainer or the retainee? Or, both?

Maybe best not to ask. 

Gratefully, Willow took that moment to crack open another portal, and stepped out into the sands, Xander at her back. They trooped in a few moments later… and immediately started looking everywhere but Buffy and Spike.

/Dammit./ 

“Hey, Faith! Long time no see!”

Okay, that was an overly-hearty greeting; especially from Xander to Faith.

“Yeah, how you been, Faith? It’s been forever!”

/Jeez. Calm it down, guys./

“S’up, Xan-man, Willow-the-witch.” Faith, ever willing to just put things right on the table so they didn’t fester, laid it right out there. “Don’t worry. You missed the sex-fest. I think they have it out of their systems for now.”

“Oh, thank God,” Xander chimed in immediately. “I was worried.”

Subject out in the open, Willow shot Buffy a _look_. “Please tell me there were no trees involved.”

Faith looked interested at that. “Trees, huh?”

“Okay, you know what,” Buffy started, feeling hunted.

“No trees this time,” Spike intoned equably. “I’d steer clear of the couch, though.”

“Ugh!” Xander exclaimed, and yanked his hand away from the arm of said furniture.

“Probably safer if we just don’t touch anything,” Willow informed them all, but she did have a small, tolerant smile on her face as she said it. “So. Where are we going for this meeting?”

Buffy ignored Spike’s amused chuckle. “Demon bar in El Ejido—the closest large-ish town—about twenty minutes up the road. We could tell you the name of it, but it really wouldn’t translate…”

“Oh, yay. A demon bar. Remind me not to touch anything there, either,” Xander put in, all pouty.

“Actually, it’s a well-set-up place,” Spike informed them, and fumbled in his duster pocket, probably for his cigarettes. “Nothin’ like Willy’s. More like Lorne’s spot in LA was meant to have been. Nicely-appointed and all that rot.” 

“I heard that was really nice,” Willow put in.

“It was,” Faith answered blandly, and leaned back on her elbows so that her body was canted at about a forty-five degree angle against the table. “Popped my head in the door once, before it burned down. No one even knew I saw the place. Was trying to stay out of sight. Real sweet. Stayed away before anyone could make me sing…” She smirked. “Though, tell you what; I can do a killer ‘Bawitaba’. Or, you know, ‘Happy House’.”

Spike’s head jerked up. “Siouxsie Sioux, is it?”

Faith smirked at him; kind of suggestively. “The Banshees had it goin’ on.”

Faith was either trying hard to flirt with Spike—and succeeding admirably, considering she couldn’t really know her audience that well—or this was a happy accident. Though, based on the fact that Spike was wearing his eyeliner tonight, maybe it wasn’t such a big shot in the dark.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “This explains the big, giant goth edge, Faith. Black on black…”

“Yeah, well, you know.” Without shifting any other part of her body, Faith flipped one hand up at the wrist, dismissing the matter. “Got a look, you roll with it. Speaking of…” She allowed a lazy grin in Spike’s direction. “Nice.”

Spike lifted his scarred brow, giving nothing back aside from faint appreciation for the compliment. “Ta. Recycling an old look.”

“I get that. Fun to blast from the past sometimes.” She turned those slutty brown eyes of hers on Buffy, then, and lifted dark brows. “Speaking of, I do a killer ‘Bitch’ too. Remember that one? Chick-power anthem.”

Buffy felt abruptly slightly less sure, once more, of who exactly Faith was flirting with. The other Slayer knew her exact music tastes as well. “We all remember that song.” She and Faith had, in fact, danced together to the thing, back when they were doing their ‘we don’t need boys, we’re bad’ jag. Boy howdy, they had.

It had been… fun.

Faith’s eyes jerked away, and she pushed herself upright, apparently very suddenly all business. “So… we out?”

Spike had been watching this exchange with interest and the beginnings, Buffy thought now, of burgeoning amusement at the corners of his lips, but now he shook his head. “Hang on a tick.” Turning his gaze downward, he dug around a little more in his duster pockets, came out with his wallet. Opened it, and frowned. “Pet, where did I put my ID?”

/Oh. Huh./ “It’s not there?”

“Might’ve left it in my trousers after that one trip over to Krzahks…”

“Hold up. You have an _ID?”_

Buffy ignored Xander. “We have enough cash, though, right?”

A short shrug. “Did alright last night in the game. You?”

Buffy patted the extremely tiny pocket of her skirt. ID. A few euros, which made the pleather bulge unhappily. “You should probably carry. This thing doesn’t hold much. And it draws attention. Besides; Gedi paid mostly in trade last week, _again_ …”

Spike held out his hand, wallet open. She dug out the euros, handed them over. He shoved them into his billfold, still frowning over his missing ID. “Gonna go check those jeans, yeah? Back in a mo’…”

“Trade for _what?”_

“Shut up, Xander.”

Faith, though, was watching Buffy with interest. “Fighting lessons?”

“Yeah. Mostly half-demons who’re having a tough time protecting themselves from bullies, stuff like that. Or have relationships with humans and are getting crap for it, or wanna protect the human lovers. That kind of thing…”

“Nice.”

“It’s a niche.”

“No, I dig it.”

Spike jogged back in, ID held between two fingers. Shoved it into the wallet before anyone could actually see anything but that it was familiarly Californian. “We’re off, then?”

“Oh, c’mon, Undead; we don’t get to see it?”

“Never in life.” He jerked his head toward the other end of the house. “‘S a bit of a walk to town, but we can catch a cab from there.”

Faith fell in beside Buffy as they left the house to strike out across the sands toward Almerimar. “Seems like he’d be good in the sack,” Faith opined bluntly, cocking a dark brow in the direction of Spike’s duster. 

Straightforward. But then, that was Faith. “He is,” Buffy answered as plainly, well aware that Spike could hear them; as aware of it as Faith was. 

“Bet he’s tough, too. Able to take what you dish out, no holds barred...”

Buffy contented herself with a slow smile, aware that Spike was smirking just by the way he held his shoulders. She in no way needed their link to read _that_.

“That’s all I get? No details? _C’mon_ , B! Satisfy a Slayer’s curiosity! What’s it like fucking a vamp?”

“Oh God,” Xander groaned, and jogged ahead a little to get out of earshot.

Buffy sighed and lifted an eyebrow gamely. “What’s it like with another Slayer?” she deflected.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Okay, she had walked right into that one. 

“Wait, hold up.” Xander had come to a complete halt. “When… What…”

“A and B conversation, Xan-man. No boys allowed.”

“Oh, _man_ …” Looking severely put-upon, Xander picked up speed once more. “Did you know about this?” he demanded of Willow as he passed. He sounded utterly betrayed.

Wil had a kind of smug look about her, like she was tallying up points in her head. “Know _about…?”_

“You have that… gaydar thing. Does it work if they’re, you know… bi?”

Faith snorted, her exhalation echoing off the walls of the first few houses of the town.

Buffy, though, opened her ears up a little at this conversational aside, since she had wondered about that for a while herself. 

Willow affected a lofty tone. “I can neither confirm nor deny information which I once found threatening as hell when I was young and pre-out, and which I later passed right over because it was not something I even remotely wanted to think about.”

“Oh, _man,”_ Xander repeated, sounding floored. “You could’ve _said_ something! I thought we were bros!”

Buffy kind of felt where he was going with that. 

Shaking her head, she watched Spike’s back. And could tell just by the way he was walking that he was heartily amused by the turn the conversation had taken. The dick. “You can stop laughing, Spike,” she called lightly. “I don’t owe you a dime yet.” Faith’s question didn’t _quite_ count as a come-on. At least, not to her mind.

“Oh yeah? What’s the bet?” Faith sounded deeply curious.

/Shit./ “Long story.” Time to turn the conversation around. Fast. “Anyway, I already paid a long time ago; at least for half of it…”

Faith looked interested in the low lights of Almerimar. “How do you pay off bets, between the two of you? Throw fights, or…” She gave a little thrust of the hips, framed by the thumbs she had hitched in her pockets. “Throw fights?”

Buffy shrugged, though she felt internally gratified to have changed the subject somewhat. “Option two. We go all-out when we spar. But…” She let a little lazy smile touch her lips. 

“Nice.” Faith smirked. “Never figured you for a handcuffs girl, B, but maybe that’s the fun of a bet…”

“No comment.”

That earned her an all-out, earthy chuckle. 

“Wil, do you have a deafening spell handy? Please?”

“Shut up, Xander, I’m learning very interesting things for blackmail. First trees, now this…”

“Oh God…”

Faith turned away from Buffy to walk half-sideways on the pavement, eyeing Xander. “Oh, c’mon. Tell me you didn’t do a few things with demon-girl. Chica was a handcuff girl if I ever saw one.” The smirk turned into a shit-eating grin. “Or, I should say, you’re a handcuff- _boy_ …” The grin broadened. “I should know.”

“Faith, you need to shut the hell up, now, or I’m gonna…”

“What?” Faith challenged flatly.

Spike’s instigating rumble broke the brief silence as he scanned the street, seeking a cab. “What do you figure, Red? Damn near have a Rubik’s Cube. Musical sodding mates, if we connect all the dots. What’s left, then? You and I sleep together, Buffy and Harris make out some…”

“You even finish that sentence, William, and you are toast.” The only person he hadn’t mentioned in any iteration was Faith, and the connections involved there would be… Well. Buffy didn’t give a damn if Willow wanted to take that walk, but the only other two left on that list were herself and Spike… and he really wanted to get himself in trouble right now.

Spike closed his mouth on a serene expression, but she saw the remnants of his devilish grin. She could feel it on the bond. 

He was such a jerk, with his stupid… amusement.

“Wow. You are just so completely whipped, Blondie.” Faith sounded highly amused… and by the tone of her voice, all too keenly aware of exactly which pairings Spike had not mentioned. Dammit.

/Not. Helping. Spike!/

“Know which side my bread’s buttered on is all,” Spike answered, and popped out an arm to flag a cab as it rolled around a corner near the Consultorio. 

They all fit into one cab by dint of Buffy sitting on Spike’s lap. Faith sat next to them, Wil jammed herself in on the back passenger side. Xander took the front seat; probably to get as far away from any further conversations about vampire sex, handcuffs, wagers, or his own sexual past as possible, though he’d no doubt listen if anyone mentioned anything further about Slayer-on-Slayer action.

Spike knew better than to do more than lightly caress Buffy’s thigh as they wended their way through miles of faceless greenhouses toward El Ejido, since she was feeling prickly, though he did at one point murmur into her neck, “Did say.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“No help for it.”

As they were slipping out of the car, though, and had a moment alone, he caught her arm. “Think she’s just tryin’, in her own way, to check in with you, Buffy. Make sure you’re happy. That you’re alright. She loves you, yeah?”

Buffy sighed and closed her eyes. Because she kind of thought Spike was right. And it was on her to do what she had meant to do the entire time, which was suss out whether Faith was the same. Which he, by the way, knew, because she’d worried about it aloud, to his face, for the last few days, and _dammit_. 

So, as they headed in toward the demon bar here in El Ejido, with its very quiet sign proclaiming it ‘Solmon’s’ and a bunch of weird symbols (the first part was less than ostentatious; the latter… who knew?), she dropped back away from her vampire to catch Faith again. Xander and Wil were ahead of them finally, engaged in a quick touch-in with Spike on what to expect inside. Now was as good a time as any. “How you holding up?”

Faith almost missed a step, though she recovered smoothly. Buffy half-expected sharp, brittle defensiveness, or at the least a kind of superficial cover. Maybe a breezy, banter-y assurance that she was ‘five-by-five’. 

What she hadn’t expected was flat honesty. “Some days are better than others, you know? But I’ll get by, B.”

That Faith would be even that vulnerable with her floored her. But then… they’d done some good work in the last year and change, so… /So, don’t let her get away./

Halting a few feet shy of their party, waiting by the doors, Buffy reached out. Held her hand up a little. Dropped it. “I… When I… Spike found me about to turn myself in. I saw this girl. Dead. In the middle of this fight. A bad one. Time being altered in the middle of the tussle. Too much confusion. No idea who I was hitting. Him, half the time. Her… It turned out…” She shook her head, uncertain whether it would reduce the impact for Faith if she knew Buffy hadn’t actually killed the person she thought she had, but... “It’s a long story. The guys who killed Tara and shot me… They raped this girl and killed her. They were trying to frame me for it. They were messing with me, and… I really thought I killed her. Spike tried to talk me out of taking the fall for it, but all I could see was that body. All I could feel was my fist hitting…” She stopped. Because it didn’t matter; even after all this time. That was what she’d seen; what she’d felt. _Still_ felt, all too viscerally, at the end of her knuckles. Heck, she had believed it for a while after Ted, and well did she remember the empty-bellied, numb terror, still, of a teenager certain she finally had made the mistake with her Slayer's strength that she couldn't take back, killed her mother's boyfriend--killed some random human being, killed him, he was dead, dead, glazed-eyes-dead, you can't take back dead--until he had returned to hurt them. And the shock of that had remained, somewhere on her brain's pathways. The horrible sinking guilt, if altered later on in her perceptions by the knowledge of what Ted had actually been.   
  
She had still felt it. Hence her kneejerk terror over having been accused, again, by Faith, of having done the thing with the guy who worked for the Mayor. And when there had been cops, and questions...   
  
Too much internal noise to locate empathy, too much blaring warning, and plain, animal fear. Because intellectual understanding of what had really happened, either time, didn’t change the perceptions of the lizard brain. “I get it, Faith. I really do, now. Finally. And I…” She shook her head; shook it off. “A bystander isn’t the same as… someone who’s coming at you. Even if they’re not…” /Really alive? A robot, already a dead girl? How can I... When she.../ Buffy trailed off, uncertain how to say what she was trying to say, or how to give what she was trying to give. How to absolve, when all Faith would hear would be that once again, she, Buffy, had gotten off easy.

Faith nodded, not quite meeting her eyes. “I know it, B. But still. You know, I was close to her. Doesn’t make it any easier when… it was still an accident. When I was never gonna…” A short shudder crept very visibly up her body.

“I know.” Those kinds of accidents… You couldn’t take them back. “But it’s still not the same. Even when it looks the same, or feels the same.”

“Yeah.” Faith looked away, hugging herself briefly, like she was trying to escape her body. “Listen. I appreciate it, B. And… Look. It means a lot. That you’ll admit to some stuff that…” She halted. And shut down again.

And there it was. /Crap./ “I know it might not be the same. Not completely. But my brain still believes it. I still felt it. And I’m sorry I didn’t get it. Then.” She could even maybe understand the level of denial, now, that had driven Faith to put it on her. Anything, to get away from the reality of it. 

The Council had kept it from being real for them, for so long; the killing. Kept them insulated, by making the demons ‘other’, so that the slaying wasn’t ‘real’. But that night by the docks had brought it all home, for two very young women, and especially for Faith. Of course she had done everything she could to escape that reality, the terrible, hollow, nauseous agony of it. She had been a kid with blood on her hands. Tough to forgive, what she had done in order to flee from that stark, horrific reality, but… Buffy could for sure could understand, with the distance of hindsight, and memory. She would very possibly have done the same, if it had been her own hand that had done the deed; especially after Ted. /Who knows if I would have ever come home, after that. Would I have just given myself up, if it was me? Really? Or would I have jumped another bus for LA, or Cleveland, or New York? Anywhere, rather than face Giles and Mom again, and the cops grilling me, and.../ And in truth, though she'd like to think so, she had no way to know for sure, which was part of why she had been so determined to do it right when the thing had happened with Katrina, and...

And Faith was meeting her now with silence; probably tangled up in her own memories of old confusion and guilt. And Spike, Wil, and Xan were waiting at the entrance to the bar, the latter two probably wondering what the holdup was, while Spike told them to shut it and wait for a few. “Anyway… I’m not pushing. But I’m around.” 

“Yeah.” The arms dropped away; a survivor forcing herself into a more confident pose. She swung them, trying to loosen up. “Look, I just…. Don’t take it the wrong way if I don’t open up. It’s… tough. For me to believe I have the right to.”

And there it was again. And Buffy appreciated the acknowledgment. But after everything they had been through, there was just way more to it than that, on both sides. “It’s tough for any of us to believe we have the right to anything, with all the shit we’ve done wrong.” Buffy managed a shrug. “If I got what I deserved, Spike would have killed me a long time ago, with all the horrible things I’ve done to him. Somehow, he loves me instead. It doesn’t make even a little bit of sense. But he taught me to maybe start believing in myself.” She waited for Faith to pick up what she was putting down. “I’m trying to learn from him.”

Faith’s eyes rose. Jerked from her to the solemnly waiting vampire. Back again. “Well… fuck,” she whispered after a moment. “Remind me to thank the guy sometime, huh?”

“He’s not going anywhere.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

They stood there for a sec, absorbing the moment while Faith debated whether accepting love and believing in herself was a gift she could take up in turn. Finally, with a brief half-shrug, she turned and headed toward the door. “Guess we better get this show on the road,” she put in, equivocally.

/I get it, Faith. It’s a long journey./ 

Hopefully it was a start, though.

***

“This is all very interesting, of course,” Trizgalik informed them, in English out of deference to the fact that the ‘Slayer delegation’ were Americans (and one English vampire polyglot, but he couldn’t be expected to translate for everyone). “As you have already presented, Señora Veranos.” The long-limbed demon from Roquetas had always insisted on calling her by the Spanish word for ‘summer’, plural, which was kind of… neat. And the ‘señora’ instead of ‘señorita’ was hardly surprising, since her mating to Spike held, in demonic eyes, the equivalent ceremony and status. To them she was a married woman, and ought to be addressed as such. Which, really, when you got down to it… “However, there remains the problem, of course, of how cooperation between us might possibly damage our standing within our own communities.”

Solmon, the leader from El Ejido, leaned forward abruptly through the slightly smoky air of the demon bar. “Perhaps a demonstration, _si?”_

Buffy schooled her face to keep the frown upside-down, managed a tight smile. “Demonstration, Solmon? What kind of demonstration?” She kept her gaze away from the third party on the demon side of the table; a new ‘investor’ who had traveled all the way from Motril. So far this ‘Señora Guzman’ had remained utterly silent throughout the meet, merely watching the proceedings through three glittering eyes. 

Thing was, Guzman’s presence here was a sure sign that Sonja, at least, had decided to award them her buy-in, if she was talking them up to leaders who had this kind of pull. Guzman was their gateway. She had businesses all over Spain, and even a little bit into France and Portugul. She would mention her conclusions to other demon leaders far and wide; in Malaga, Granada, hell… maybe as far as freaking Barcelona if they were lucky and things went well. 

Things _had_ to go well. This was their ticket to getting this thing off the ground outside of their own small sphere of operations here on the coast. 

Buffy could feel Spike’s tension rolling off of him in waves. On her other side, Faith, who had watched the meeting in the picture of deadly, lazy interest the entire time, was now sitting up a little, expression hardening. Xander and Willow, seated on her other side, were equally tense as they awaited the furry, red creature’s response. Willow had that frown on her face that said she was ready to go veiny if necessary. Xander just looked prepared to yank out a hammer or something; whatever was necessary.

Sunnydale had been the hell of a training ground.

Solmon did not seem at all piqued by the change in the atmosphere around the table. In fact, it appeared to find the livening up of the crowd… heartening. It grinned, showing a rank of serrated fangs that did nothing to relax its audience. Lifting one finger in a manner that was clearly unthreatening, it pointed at the sky, as if it should be visible through the smoky air of the cantina. Since, of course, they were under the awning, inside the bar and not at one of the al fresco seating areas, all their following gazes saw nothing. “La Luna, she will be full in three days, _si?”_

/Well, duh./ Nina and Jamal were already prepping to go into their respective nightly containments starting tomorrow. “Solmon, if you will please…”

“When she is at her fullness, we are asked…” Solmon made a face which Buffy thought she might interpret as… maybe reluctant? Maybe even disgusted? “Required, I think, is better? To perform a ceremony, to placate a greater one than us, here in El Ejido…”

/Oh, crap./ “Monthly, or annual?”

“I am grateful to say that this tribute comes but once in every year, _Asesina suprema*_ , but still it causes great _problemas_ for us. You must understand… we are businesspeople. We find it difficult enough to remain submerged in a community the size of this one without, what is the word? Fanfare, without that sort of unpleasantness in _los_ _periodicos_.* It would be better for us not to have to bow to this… greater one… but none of us may easily dirty our hands with the… removal of such a one without it becoming a problem for us as leaders of our own kind.”

/Oh./ Buffy leaned back. “But since it’s kind of our job anyway, if we did you a solid and knocked off this top-flight demon of yours so you didn’t have to bother, you figure everyone’s happy?”

Faith looked mildly disgusted. 

“It is a useful arrangement, _si?_ You must understand… most of us who are… less than that one resent her. We do not wish to continue to serve, but we must. She established herself here thousands of years ago, and we must pay tribute in order to continue to subsist in this place. It is… a necessary evil. To free us would be to free not only our community, but to save the humans from an unnecessary culling, which is, after all, a thing which you are meant to halt, correct?”

Buffy sighed and leaned back in her chair. “So, the tribute is humans? Narrow it down for me. Babies, virgins…” /Damn, damn, damn; way to show my peeps that I’m allying with the right sort of…/

“Oh, no, Señora Veranos. Nothing so sordid as _los bebes_ , and _las virgenes_ are… Well, one might think they would become only more popular in this day, the way a currency that becomes the rarer becomes also more sought-after, but no. It is not the case. No death is required of this tribute…”

Willow spoke up anxiously from the other side of Xander. “I already don’t like the sound of this.”

“The ruler of this place does not require the whole of a person. Only their tongues.”

Okay, gross much? Hearts, she’d dealt with. Voices, babies, blood… but _tongues?_

Which, she supposed, when you got down to it, was kind of voices-plus-blood, but…

“Still, it becomes… sensationalized? And stories, they become wild. There is this idea that every year there is a person stalking the streets who is after these things, who will someday be a… what is the word? Killer in order?”

“Serial killer?” 

“That one.”

“You know, B,” Faith broke in, “it kind of makes you wonder how many of those unsolved cases are, you know…” She waved one hand vaguely. “I mean, it’s not like your standard cop is really equipped to knock down demon bars and shake down the local underground for info on the nearest cult of Lurconis or whoever…”

Xander, of all people, looked interested at that. “Wild theory, Faith. I’d buy that. Man… If I could only write, I could make bank on some kind of thriller. No one could come out and say it wasn’t my idea.” His eyes switched over to the demons sitting across the table from them. “I mean, not sayin’ I wouldn’t put, you know, clever acknowledgments in, and in a way it’d be like, representation, right? Demons reading it could be like, ‘Names changed to protect people, LOL; someone knows what’s up!’ and humans would just think that part was a joke…” He trailed off and looked at his glass, as if aware he was getting too nerdy for the class. “Guess it’s more of an Andrew thing…” 

Trizgalik, though, lifted one very thin brow. “I would read such a novel. If it were translated into Spanish. I am difficult with reading in English. I would even assist with the writing.” A faint, ironic smile. “Perhaps you should bring this idea to a… What is the term? A ghost-writer who is demon in aspect? Then you could both reap the profits, and it would be accurate.”

“Hey, now,” Xander perked up, looking abruptly fascinated by the idea. “That’s an idea. Talk about a business proposition. Give someone who has no actual face in the human world but has the talent some exposure… You guys, this could work! I’m sure there’re still demon lawyers out there who could figure out a way to split the profits…”

“Could we focus first on the dangerous demon kingpin out there trying to eat people’s tongues, before we organize your future as a bestseller, Xander?” God, he was such a nerd.

“The tongues… they are not for eating.”

Buffy felt her hand shoot up of its own accord. “Please don’t tell me. I don’t even wanna know why tongues are such a big deal. We’ve fought off guys who wanted tributes of hearts, but seriously. Tongues? And why _human?_ ”

Solmon shook his head grimly. “I, too, find it distasteful. I do not like to dirty my hands with such things.” The bulky, crimson demon looked fitful. _“El año pasado*_ I attempted instead a tribute of pig’s tongues. I was very much abused for this, and was informed that the tongues must come from those who speak, but are not of our kind.”

“Ergo, human,” Spike grunted, and lifted his whiskey to his teeth with a tight expression. “Some humans, I can see removing their tongues. Right worthy endeavor. Some, though…” A faint smile tickled just the very corners of his mouth. “Ruddy tragedy.”

Buffy elbowed him in the side before Xander could come around to realizing he had been insulted in a sidelong way in the same breath as the requisite innuendo.

Faith hadn’t missed it. She was grinning broadly.

Solmon, of course, looked confused. “I do not understand?”

“Don’t worry about it, mate. What happened with bein’ late on the tribute last year, then?”

The local leader took on a regretful cast. “I nearly did not get the requisite tribute to the right place at the right time. It is best to spread these things out over many days, _si_ , and over many miles? To do it all at once, swiftly, in small and localized area… It is messy, and hurried. There were many mistakes, done by many hands, some less well-versed in covering than others.” A tragic tilt of furred shoulders which bespoke a heavy burden. “It was a terrible disaster.”

Buffy felt a surge of old-school disgust; a sort of, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry for you that your tongue-cutting, people-maiming spree caused you so many problems, you poor demon, you!’ She fought it down, because with her new awareness came the realization. /I can stop these stupid things. Cut them off at the root. This guy is asking us to help them _stop_ it./

Of course, the fact was, the demons could have banded together to throw off their own oppressors ages ago if they really wanted to live in peace, but maybe there was more to it than that? Anyway, it was an in. 

_“Los_ _periodicos_ were very much in a whirl,” Solmon was intoning sadly. “Our entire underground economy was almost discovered. I was nearly deposed. The drama of it all…” It passed a hand across its furred forehead. Reddish hairs came off to glisten on the back of its clawed hand along with some sweat, to attest to the remembered horrors. “So much cleaning up of the damage, _si?_ I cannot attempt such a thing again.” A slow head-shake. “It is all so distasteful.”

“So… as a show of good faith, you’d like us to knock off this demon-king of El Ejido for you, so that you don’t have to do your annual tongue-harvest…” This was so not how Buffy had expected this meeting to go. 

“You have said there is a way for our worlds to work together, _Asesina_ Veranos. That sometimes our problems, they are the same, _si?”_

/Put your money where your mouth is, basically./ She just hadn’t thought the whole ‘Slayer-for-hire’ part of things would start this soon. 

Not that she wasn’t itching for a good slay, after like eight months without a really tough fight, but still. If this was already beginning, at this early stage, what happened if the demon world sent her and Spike up against something truly apocalypse-worthy; just them? /I mean, it’s not like we can ask our cell to buy in on this. It’s not their idea./ They hadn’t even fully briefed the 911 team on the full scope of the plan, much less asked them if they wanted in. It was, after all, the hell of a lot to ask—far more than just, ‘Oh, you now, let’s band together and do a little kicking ass if anything goes sideways, for old times’ sake, huh?’ This was a revolution, and came with a ton of blurring of the lines that people used to define their identities and communities and stuff.

The emergency cell was one thing. But loyalties bred in one situation only went so far. There were war-buddies… and then there was family. Some of their crew here might end up graduating to family, if they chose to stick. Some would most likely drift off, go their own ways at some point. And they should do what was best for them. /Better that than be strong-armed into staying in a fight that could cost them their lives./ 

Not that anyone had strong-armed Tara, or Anya, but…

Well.

“If we cannot end our mutual problems internally because of our own politics,” Solmon was saying, “perhaps you can do this for us, because it is what you must already do. But it is a thing you can do without damaging your relations with your world… because it is a thing for which those of us who are peaceable with the human world would celebrate you.”

Buffy contemplated that for a moment. /I thought I’d get to stop being a cop… but really it’s just a transition, huh? Instead of doing it for just humans, what I’m really doing is volunteering to be a kind of on-call Slayer who steps up for the demons who would really just rather be shopping and relaxing than doing rituals for some Old One or whoever, but who otherwise kind of had to because, bigger fish in the local pond, and no demon police on the scene. Because I’ve just said we could also be the demon-police. Which… we kinda always have been; I’m just essentially making it official, and less… out-of-town-military-cops and more… neighborhood-friendly-cops. And we’ll be working for both sides now./

So much for retirement. /At least it’ll be on-call? Less patrolling; at least for me?/ She had been bored when it came to the off-the-hellmouth aspect of things. Still… Being under contract was almost as bad as being under some Watcher’s pointy finger, while he yapped at her about her ‘sacred duty’. /And, dammit, you were the one who brought the idea to them. You _volunteered_ for this./

And it just now hit her… /You told me you had something for me on the other side, Cordy. You didn’t tell me this is what you meant by being ‘a bridge’./ Though… nice to know she was on the right road. /One point for my side, to be all Powers-sanctioned on this trip. Take _that_ , Giles./ “So what you’re saying is, we could transition to being the force on the side of the peaceful demons, and not just for the humans?”

“It would be difficult to make this happen,” Trizgalik put in, dithering slightly, “unless your _Asesinas_ learned to… how is it? Understand the difference between those who merely wish to live without conflict, and those who truly wish to damage their kind.” A pointed nod in Xander and Willow’s direction. “And…” Trizgalik favored them with a brief tilt of the head. “…Those who truly damage ours. For we have become such traitors, that we wish to live in this world rather than to struggle against it.”

Buffy could feel the eyes of the Motril leader on her as she absorbed that, and wow. This meeting really had ended up coming around to a super-useful demonstration of that demarcation for Wil, Xan, and Faith, hadn’t it. “I suppose it’s not really any skin off our backs to do it. Not that we exactly dressed for action tonight.” /Dammit, every time I dress up. It’s like slayage law./ “S’pose it has to be tonight, or your clock will start.”

“It would be difficult to wait on the assumption of your return,” Solmon agreed cheerily, “when one remembers what happened the last time I put off the accumulation of tributes.”

/No faith. Put up or shut up./ Buffy touched Spike’s leg briefly, felt his humming preparedness. Not that he wouldn’t back her no matter what they were doing, but good to know he was down. She turned to Faith next. “You wanna fight a thing tonight?” She didn’t have to be in, but if she wanted to…

Faith considered it briefly, then shrugged. “Hell, I got nothin’ else goin’ on. A good tussle with a big mama demon sounds dandy.”

Buffy lifted her eyes to Wil and Xander. “Standby?”

Xander just looked like he always did pre-battle. Ready to grab some nearby piece of debris and use it to whack something. He wasn’t big on things cutting people’s tongues out, book-research or no. But Willow was making a very familiar face as she turned to address their demon counterparts; that one that said ‘we need to know a little more about this before we go just busting in’. “What’s this big local demon’s name?”

Solmon tilted its head slightly. _“La Silenciadora_ … She will send her _Nitus_ out through the year to dwell in the minds of humans, to eat their memories and to make them fatigued, so they will have nothing to sing about, so that she can enjoy the quiet that she has preferred since before they came. Then, when the year turns to spring, and the brightness returns, she becomes angry because, despite all her hard work, people will still become pleased, begin to turn toward the light, to sing and laugh because the darkness of winter is ending. So she will ask for their tongues, to silence them, and build of them a wall around her, which will murmur only her name, and drown out the sounds of happy humanity. This way she will not have to hear their traffic until they quieten again with the coming of the dark months, when the _Nitin_ once more do their work.”

“Cranky old bitch,” Spike opined, tossing back the rest of his drink. He tilted one eye at the rest of the crew. “Wanna kill her, then?”

Willow held up one hand. “Problem. I’ve read about this one. She’s, um…” A quick glance around the smoky room. “Is there wireless here?”

Solmon’s furry hairline rose; the equivalent, Buffy thought, of raising one’s eyebrows. “Like they do at the cafes? I believe there is this connection, _si_.”

“Great. Hold up a second, _por favor_ …” And, armed as always, she leaned over under her chair and pulled out her laptop. 

Within two seconds, she was up on the complimentary internet thingie and had a webpage open. “We finally got all of Giles’ library scanned in, thanks to Andrew. I’m so glad he left it all in England instead of bringing it back with him to Sunnydale…”

“We’re all glad about that,” Xander muttered, staring into the screen. 

Buffy kept her mouth shut. A lot of that library could stand to be, at the very least, revised, and she still wasn’t sure if it was more work to just build a new one up from scratch or to root through the whole thing and rectify all the false information and the, like, libel-slant-thing going on on every page. But, okay. It was a basis, she supposed. 

“Okay, so. ‘The Silencer, Queen of El Ejido, is a demon of fearful aspect, with seven heads, each with fourteen large ears lining her neck…’”

“Why doesn’t she just amputate some of her ears so she doesn’t get so irritated by everyone’s happies, and then everyone can live together peacefully, tra la la…”

Faith leaned away a little on her elbow to regard Xander. “You know, you kinda sounded like your girl Anya there for a sec.”

Xander looked startled, then blushed slightly. “Well, something had to rub off.”

“Shut up, you guys. Listen. ‘This particularly dangerous demon is said to emit a keening noise when threatened which can incapacitate all attackers in an up to a hundred-foot radius, with permanent damage to the auditory canal within the inner thirty-foot radius.’ She’s a sonic weapon. You’re gonna have to take out her voice-box first. But we don’t know where that is on her…”

Buffy frowned thoughtfully. “Silencing spell?”

“If they work on her.”

/Good point. And it would’ve been nice to have the warning./ Wil had had the right instincts, after all.

Turning to Solmon, Buffy leveled him with a flat look. “Not a big fan of going permanently deaf to do this.”

Solmon flipped a hand over a couple of times as if to say, ‘What can I say?’

/Risks we take with the job, I guess./ “Well. Everyone still in?”

Spike shrugged and tossed back the rest of his drink. “May as well get on with it, yeah? Night’s not gettin’ any younger. Wanna see my Slayer dance before we knock off for the evenin’.” He grinned pointedly. “In more ways than one.”

/I love you./ He was so dang predictable, her guy.

Faith followed suit in swift succession with her shot of jack. “I’m down. Sounds like a great way to start the night off right. A nice slay, some dancing… booze on comp; which, by the way, thanks, guys…”

_“Con mucho gusto,* Asesina,”_ Solmon answered with a small tilt of his head.

“I like him,” Faith informed everyone, and shoved aside her empty shot glass to grab up her tiny leather jacket. “Willow?”

Wil sighed. “We’ve seen worse, huh? Xan?”

Xander shrugged. “Wish I’d just brought a gun. I really should just start carrying those stupid things everywhere from now on.”

“Bloody well cheating,” Spike insisted. He pushed himself to his feet. “But… it does even the odds.” 

**TBC…  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**

(Quote by Audre Lorde)

_Asesina suprema =_ essentially in this context, 'Slayer most high'/ Slayer prime 

_los_ _periodicos =_ the newspapers. Likely also referring in these latter days to blogs and the like 

_El año pasado =_ last year 

_Con mucho gusto =_ with great pleasure

Wake up, time to Slay!!!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing with the theme of transition from "slaying only to benefit one side of the tracks" to... Well, there has to be more than one way to make being a Slayer useful, while still brokering peace between the worlds. And, you know, getting the ol', way-underused ya-yas out. Etc.
> 
> There are, after all, a lot of ya-yas built up by now to be gotten out.

They rose as a group. Made their farewells to Trizgalik and the silent Señora Guzman, and headed toward the exit with Solmon in tow.   
  
As they passed out of their small, private booth, their guide for the evening struck up a low, guttural murmur of continued exposition. “I will guide you to where _La Silenciadora_ makes her abode,” he informed them in placid tones that almost, but not quite, managed to belie his obvious anxiety over the step he was taking. _“Por favor_ , follow closely.”

Clearly, the position of unwilling traitor in the face of his fellows was not a stance to be taken lightly, no matter how shrewd or logical a choice it was in current circumstances. Which... /Don't I know it./ Right now, Buffy honestly felt like she had more in common with leaders like Solmon, who were wiling to step outside their thousand-year-old comfort zones to try something new, than she had with people like the remaining Watchers. At least, by this point, anyway. Which was probably something she should look at in greater depth at some point--like, was she just really desperate for something to slay after too long spent living peacefully?--but right now she just really didn't have the bandwidth to analyze her new vantage in all that great a depth. It was what it was. /They're doing what I'm doing. The exact same thing I'm doing, only from the other side./   
  
It was all just tentative steps toward a peace she could barely imagine or envision, much less grasp, but it was enough right now. She would roll with it, the way she always did, and see what came of it. /And, apparently, take my friends right with me, and just hope for the best, like always. Because they're nuts that way, and they still trust me./   
  
/What the hell am I doing, again?/ 

They were committed, now, though. Might as well get down to it.

As ever, they made a motley group of modified Scoobies while en route to the site; a spot seemingly on the southeastern end of town. Buffy wondered the whole way if they were going to end up at a sewer entrance, considering she had dressed up for clubbing rather than for a fight, and the terrain around here was overwhelmingly flat. Nowhere to hide even a tiny cave or natural tunnel-system or… /The only ‘tunnels’ in places like this are man-made, and dammit, I should’ve known better than to wear nice-ish shoes, what even is the _matter_ with me, it’s like tempting fate!/

Up ahead, she overheard Solmon addressing Spike. “I must ask… You feel quite old for _un vampiro_. You make my flesh become buzzing. I must ask, are you then what is called _un vampiro maestro?”*_

Spike scoffed a little. “I was.”

Oh, jeez. _Really?_ “Spike,” Buffy informed her lover dryly, “you don’t lose your title because you’re… on indefinite hiatus from certain vampirical activities.” To one side, Xander muttered something about reformed serial killers. Buffy ignored him. “You _earned_ it. It’s _yours_.”

Solmon sounded fascinated by this interchange as he broke in again. “How is it, then, that you are pleased to cease behaving as _un vampiro_ to be the companion to the head of _el Gremio de las Asesinas?*_ You must find this life… less appealing than your previous existence; to bow your head to human rules and regulations, and to leave those living who are but chattel to you.”

Buffy opened her mouth… and then closed it. She didn’t need to jump in. Spike had been defending his life choices to other demons for years now. 

And besides; she wanted to hear what he had to say. For one thing, she had never actually heard him explain it the way he would to other demons; only how he talked about it to her. And for another… Probably a good thing for Xan and Wil to hear it. 

“How does it feel for you, Solmon,” Spike began quietly, “to bow your head to certain human rules and regulations, to keep your business intact? But you choose to do it. It’s worth it to you, yeah, or you wouldn’t bother. All this…” He waved one hand around, then, predictably, shoved it into his inner breast pocket, found his Zippo, dug out a cigarette. “…Beggin’ the Slayer and Company to get you out of havin’ _La Policia_ on your arse, not wantin’ to cut tongues off of blokes ‘cause it’ll hurt your bottom line. I know you don’t really give a damn otherwise. It’s not gonna put your back up to whack off a few human tongues. We both know there’re more humans about to take their places; and they all bloody well talk; some of ‘em too much.” He very pointedly did not look at Xander, but they all knew who that dig was for. Xander grumbled something uncomplimentary. “Some of ‘em…” Spike went on, and then smirked. “Well.” He slowly lit up. Took a theatrically satisfied drag. Let it out around the rest of his words. “They use their tongues to damn good effect, don’t mind sayin’, but that’s not somethin’ you care too much about, so that’s off the table for you as a suitable inducement.”

“Spike, you’re so gross…” Xander muttered, though without any real heat. Buffy, though, found herself shaking her head. How could Xan not see how much of this was performance right now? The cigarette, the sudden descent into ‘demon camaraderie for the sake of psychology’… It was all to get into Solmon’s head. 

He wasn’t acting like it, but he’d been put on the spot and he wasn’t a fan. 

“I understand what you are saying,” Solmon answered slowly, then shook his large, sleek head. “What I do not understand is… You hunt still, _si?_ You could take human lives. There are so many. It does not matter to you, does it? There will be still more…”

Spike sighed and lowered the cigarette. Walked for a moment with one hand out, slapping the passing sign-posts and streetlamps like a hyperactive kid. God, he was agitated. He had, like, total performance anxiety right now. As well he might, Buffy figured, considering he was saying all this not only in front of a full-demon community leader, but also her, and Will, and Xan, and Faith. The latter three weren’t, by the way, people with whom they were exactly out when it came to the whole catch-and-release MO. Xan would so not understand Buffy’s fuzzy, gray line on that one. Wil… maybe; not that Buffy gave a damn anymore whether they approved. Faith probably would; but who knew. The other Slayer had to hold a pretty tight line on _herself_ , considering how hard she had to watch herself to keep from slipping to her own dark side, so would she accept that other people could manage their own lines?

Either way, Spike wouldn’t want to talk about the soul in front of every Tom, Dick, and Demon in the dimension. But beyond that, Buffy knew he wouldn’t have hunted to the death even before it… because of her. And it was about time her people realized it.

Their friends were about to hear the demon-approved, unsouled version of ‘The Reason’.

“Tough to think about ‘em that way anymore,” Spike answered finally; a clever answer that neither confirmed nor denied his use of ‘donors’. “Was human once. Love a few humans now. Makes me remember what it’s like. To have people who mourn when someone dies. Saw the two people I love most in the world fall apart over losin’ their mum. Brought it all back to me. Then… saw my Slayer die. Remember what it’s like m’self; to lose the person you love most in the world.” A faint shrug. “Don’t wanna be a party to it anymore; no more’n the Slayer wants to be the one as takes anyone else’s mum or da away, yeah, if it’s not needful, for you lot who have those sorts of family structures on the demon side, now she knows what it’s about.”

The terse delivery did not belie the emotions behind it. And Buffy saw the little starts from Wil and Xander as they realized just exactly why her own sudden one-eighty in that department. The reasons behind the abrupt closing of the gap, there.

Solmon absorbed this little dissertation with interest. “I can see how it should be different for you who once had a human life—something many of us cannot say, so that we cannot understand what you understand—and because you love these ones.” 

It was a point. The vampire perspective was, in a way, a bridge. They might not understand the demon-family thing, because their demons didn’t have the same kinds of parents, children, et cetera… but they had had them once, as humans. They had had human lives, which… no wonder so many demons despised vamps.

Their supposed ‘weakness’ could also be a strength. /If we can just slow the damn idiots down enough to realize it./

“Strange, strange. But surely there is a way to get your fill, be that which you were, and still continue this new road you have chosen. I find it strange that you do not destroy those who are considered evildoers by the humans, at the least. The murderers, _los violadores_ …”*

He could, Buffy supposed, still talk himself into thinking that it was okay to go there. Or might have, once, even with the soul. Except… Warren had taught them that it was too much of a gamble.

“Been down that road,” Spike muttered, and pulled in another drag of his cigarette. Stubbed it out on a passing streetlamp and tossed it in a nearby trash bin. “Did in a waste of human skin a few weeks back. Still comin’ back from it. Too much temptation. Humans have their own system for dealin’ with those sorts. Might not be all that effective, but the trouble is, I let myself go, give myself permission, I lose hold of myself, start lettin’ that line slide with other excuses, maybe. Get a tooth for it. Too fine a line to cross.” 

/Well, that’s a really short summary for what was a really incredibly painful struggle./

“Best to go on as I have been, I wanna keep what I have. An’ besides.” His face twisted slightly. “It’s not so much about believin’ in human laws; it’s about the Slayer. With all she’s lost an’ sacrificed to keep humans kickin’, it would be spittin’ in her face to go about killin’ ‘em.” He pulled the Zippo back out, fiddled with the lid a little, and dammit, Buffy was having _emotions_. She had long known her guy didn’t really believe in human rules anymore; hadn’t since he’d been turned. Knew it was about loving her, way before the soul; but he’d never put it quite this way before now. Not to her face, and, just, holy fuck. 

/He’s never abstained just to _be_ with me. He’s doing it to _honor_ me./ 

_God_.

“Have to help keep ‘em alive; and the innocents among our lot. It helps keep _her_ alive. That’s all there is to it. That’s all I’m here for.” A short, taut shrug. “Taken enough lives in my time. I’ve had my surfeit. Don’t need to take more; definitely don’t need ‘em to stay fed. My job now is to stay strong enough to do for her. That’s all of it.”

Those damned emotions filled her to overflowing; made her skin try to float away, made her perk inside, warm and filled up, balanced somewhere between weepy and turned on and proud and…

“Fascinating.” Solmon sounded like he’d been given enormous food for thought.

Buffy could see that Wil and Xander had too, judging by the expressions fleeting over their faces, from her periphery. And this night was just full of unexpected dividends. However, that was really not her focus right now. She took a big stride to even up with her vampire, caught his arm in hers and hugged it to her. “Do you have any idea how hard you’re gonna get laid tonight?” 

He careened against her side, looked over at her as if he was surprised to find her there. “Have done already, pet, but I won’t say no to a repeat.”

Behind them, Faith snorted loudly. “You two are pretty disgusting. It almost tips over the edge into cute. I never thought a vamp and a Slayer doin’ the nasty would make me wanna barf like watching a damn Disney movie…”

_“That’s_ why they make you wanna barf?” Xander exclaimed, but there was no real disgust in it. He sounded, if anything, surprised.

Willow murmured something Buffy didn’t quite hear. Spike must have, though, because he straightened a little. “That’s a stretch, Red.”

“I’m… contemplating.”

“I’m not all that sure I want you to go down that contemplative road, witch-girl. We’re not a ruddy talisman you can hang about your neck at a Wicca faire.”

Buffy blinked. “Excuse me?”

_“‘Pu yen chih chiao’,_ Spike repeated grimly. “Teaching without words _. Wu_ and _Yu_ and _Te_ and all that shite. ‘The harmony of opposites’. The witch is getting Taoist on us.”

“Okay?”

“‘There is something fundamentally honest and psychologically healthy in being oneself and striding forward with one’s vision facing directly ahead, instead of trying at every turn to satisfy abstract standards of goodness established by a reigning orthodoxy. This is what _te_ is all about.’”* 

Willow’s quoting voice dragged Buffy right back in time to college, and it took her a second to blink and recognize what was being said. “That’s… what; Taoism?” /Because I can get down with any religion that tells me to, you know, just be me and not be ashamed. Not that I wanna be all, religion-girl, but where was that stuff when I was hating myself?/

“That’s deep,” Faith put in, sounding as if she half didn’t want to sound impressed and half as if she was willing to be. “Maybe there’s something to that college shit after all.”

“It’s more ‘witch stuff’,” Wil answered softly. “A whole lot of, ‘stop trying to interfere with the way things run in their natural course, let them flow like a river and see where they go. ‘The world is a spiritual vessel, and one cannot act upon it. One who acts upon it destroys it…’”

“That’s the _Wu_ bit,” Spike put in, still tense, though he was trying not to sound like it. 

Buffy, though, was fascinated. “Is this the stuff the Devon coven had you learning? You know, to chill out on the controlling-everything thing?”

“Yeah. But it made me realize that trying to control other people’s lives, even with words, can really just wreck everything.” Willow shot Xander a pointed look.

Xander blinked his one eye and flung up his hands. “Hey. I’m throwing zero rocks in anyone’s rivers anymore. I’ve got no place to stand on in anything, right?”

Buffy remembered now, how different Wil was upon her return from England. And how very much she had kept her mouth shut about all things Spike, even when Xander was still firmly on the ‘we hate Blond Vampires’ committee. Once upon a time Wil might have joined in with her oldest friend on sheer bandwagon principle; to the point where Buffy had expected it, had jumped to the conclusion that that was where Willow was going with things the one time the subject had come up. But Wil hadn’t gone there, at all. She had been gentle, concerned, open and willing, sticking to the facts and to plain logistics, and…

It had been Buffy, the bearer of many old wounds and understandable defensiveness, who had leapt straight to the wary road of Freudian word-diarrhea. Which, you know… Things were said that she had probably needed to hear herself say. “I might read a little of this stuff. It sounds… relaxing.”

Spike grunted slightly. “Lot of sodding inaction in that philosophy.”

Willow sounded tolerant when she answered. “Not necessarily. You can still be a jumpy-ass vampire. Just, you know… all that ‘actions should be emotionally-detached and not ego-driven’, et cetera…”

“Well, that leaves me out,” Faith opined blandly, and shadowboxed the air a little. “I’m with Hot Blond and Wiry. That ‘know thyself’ shit is great for passing the time when you’re locked up, but I already know me. I know when I need to fight, to fuck, and to get my groove on…” She bobbed up and down on her heels. “I spent way too much time sitting still in the big house.”

And, okay, Buffy really did not want to think about what that had been like, even for one second. But, for the first time, her mind forced her to think of what it had truly been like for Faith, beyond the kneejerk, vicious and vindictive wish for justice and vengeance; that she be locked away forever so that she could not bother any of them again. /God./ Trapped in a little cell for three _years_ , not being able to work out really except for when there was access to some crappy weight room or something, or if you could rig some kind of chin-up bar, or find floor-space for endless situps and pushups and crunches. No room to jog, even. No fights without ending up in an even smaller cell. For sure no slaying to let off the charge… and definitely no sex.

Well, maybe Faith had managed to get some, considering her proclivities, but it was probably tough to manage even that, considering the strict environment… and it was doubtless not her first choice for blowing off steam, what with the whole ‘could get beat up and put in solitary’ portion of things. And maybe her sister-Slayer _had_ paid for what she’d done. Because if that was Buffy…

/I would have lost my mind in six months. _Seriously_ lost it./

Going without sex for long periods she could manage, just barely, if she could regularly kill pretty much everything in sight, work out more or less constantly, live on the edge of death and adrenaline, and generally turn herself into a killing machine instead. And, well… she had learned in the last half-year and change that the opposite applied. Minimal slayage to be had? Up the sex quotient considerably, maybe turn up the kink a little, throw some damn good sparring into the mix, and _et voila_. Still a fairly happy Slayer.

Sitting completely still for _hours_ , every day, for _years_ on end, just thinking about everything you’d ever done wrong? /I did that for about eight hours in Florence, and I almost sacrificed the entire Slayer Organization taking thoughtless action to come and get Spike, just to _do_ something to fix it… because _no_./ 

Enforced inaction was the absolute worst possible punishment for a Slayer, in the entire universe. And Faith had accepted it willingly. For _years_. 

Buffy turned around, out from under Spike’s arm to walk backward, facing her sister. “I couldn’t have done it.”

Faith, strutting behind her, faltered just slightly. “What’s that, B?”

“You’re stronger than I am. To have stayed. I would’ve been out in a week, tops. I was in a motel room in Florence, alone with my thoughts for about eight hours last summer, and I couldn’t take it. I got plastered, broke a bottle of alcohol against the wall, got on a plane and came to get Spike before I could even think straight or finish healing, much less before I had time to decide whether it was a good idea for anyone else but us. Whether it was even a good idea for _him_ …”

“Christ, Buffy…” 

/Oh, right. I never told you that part. Well, anyway; that secret’s out./ “So… You win the award for strongest Slayer. I couldn’t do what you did.”

Faith watched her for a second, expression something Buffy had never seen before on her. Then, “Had a lot to think about. Lot to pay for. Took my chance, though, you know. When they asked me to come out and help with Angelus, I jumped at it.”

“No sin in that. You did your duty. I’d’ve done the same thing.”

Faith shrugged slightly, eyes on the street. Then a shit-eating grin crossed her face, and she lifted her eyes, smoldering with amusement. “Who knew, though. Saint Buffy, laying around some dive motel room, smashing bottles and howling at the moon. Hell, I’d’ve paid to see that.”

“Christ, pet,” Spike murmured again, sounding pained, which… Yeah. She supposed he would know from forced inaction. He, the vampire who never stopped moving, had once been confined to a wheelchair for months, and why had she never thought of that before? The thought, in retrospect, pained her; almost as much as remembering that he had once inhabited a cell in the Initiative. /A bathtub at Giles' place. And then all that stillness in the basement of the school, and then my basement, and, just... Wow. He really _would_ get it./

Buffy fought to shrug it off, along with her own short stint at mindful stillness, and shot for blasé. “I had a fever. Some Scourge asshole got me on the shoulder. And they said some things that made me reevaluate my life while I was drunk off my ass on grappa.” Buffy shot a glance over at her vampire. “Which, by the way, makes a crappy anesthetic…”

“Bloody hell, Slayer.”

“You were drunk when you decided to go get his ass?” Xander chipped in, sounding like the mysteries of the universe had been solved for him. “Everything’s starting to make sense, now.”

_“In vino veritas,”_ Willow reminded Xander quietly. 

“Beer bad,” he rebutted flatly.

“In grappa, self-reflection and a really shitty hangover. And a Slayer willing to take a shot.”

Spike stopped dead in the street, grabbed Buffy up and dragged her into his arms. “Christ; oh bloody hell, Love…”

“I’m really, really glad I took that mission to Florence,” Buffy informed his adam’s apple softly. “In case I never told you.”

He just rocked her against him, wordless. 

It was always kind of a big thing when her William didn’t have words.

“If we may continue?” Solmon’s harsh voice broke into the moment, making Buffy shudder slightly from half-inside the familiar sanctuary of duster and cool embrace. 

“Right. Sorry.” She would rather stay enveloped in that leather smell and comfort and Spikeness forever, but, well. Duty called.

And she really wouldn’t mind slaying something again. It had been a damn long while.

As she began to extricate herself, though, Spike held on. Bent to kiss her, very soundly, in a way that begged another moment. And, well. Probably the thing with all the ears could wait a minute. It had been around, after all, since before Spain was a country.

Digging her fingers into his scalp, she hung on for the ride and gave back as good as she got. And kind of forgot for a second about the local demon-leader tapping his foot over there, or about the rest of the audience. That was, until Faith’s voice broke through the haze. “Hot damn. He sure looks like making out with him is worth the price of admission. How’s that mouth at other events, B?”

Spike’s amused rumble vibrated through Buffy’s mouth, down through her entire body, and yes, they should probably get to the killing things segment of the evening, stat.

Xander’s groan punctuated the night. “Please, if you love me, do not answer that question.”

Buffy pulled away just a tad, very reluctantly, hands still locked in the convenient handle of her guy’s softening ringlets. “Hm,” she managed, clearing her throat a little.

“Um, did anyone else know that Spike’s hair is curly?” Willow demanded of no one in particular. She sounded startled.

Spike broke free with a low growl. “We’re about to head into a battle, Slayer; can’t you leave off the sodding hair for five minutes?”

/Okay, you know what?/ “You started this!” But she let go of his head, dropped her hands to her sides. “We should go slay things.”

Faith grinned. “And then party.”

/Or something./

They kicked back into motion, an impatient Solmon striding ahead looking relieved to have that all-too-human interval out of the way. Wil and Xander trailed closely behind him, the two Slayers and the vampire pulling up the rear with a few feet of space between them and the van. Faith drew even with Buffy, gave Spike a thoughtful once-over, bumped Buffy on the shoulder. “You never really answered my question. Is it all chemistry, or is there a high skill component?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Should I go walk with the kiddies for a bit?”

“No, you can stay, sexy.”

Buffy smirked at his nonchalant, ‘not-listening’ expression. “Based on my previous experience, I think even the Russian judge would give him a solid ten… on the artistic _and_ the technical.”

_“Well_ , now,” Faith said, lifting her eyes and lowering them theatrically up and down Spike’s body. “Shame we didn’t meet a little earlier, gorgeous. Might’ve had some fun.”

Spike rolled his eyes again. “Buffy’s biased. Too many blokes with delusions of grandeur who were shite at realizing the best bit of a woman is the pregame show.”

“Don’t downplay yourself.”

“Hey, she’s right. Just the fact that you say that means you’re in the top five, right there. Hell, B; maybe I should try a vamp.” She shot Spike another brief, assessing look. “An older one. One who’s had time to season.”

Buffy scoffed lightly. “Angel had time to season, and…” Well, the less said about that, the better. No point in airing dirty laundry behind anyone’s back just to be mean, but certain opinions of things had changed a lot somewhere in the vicinity of post-death and ‘can’t get my legs to work’. 

It took a lot to take a Slayer’s legs out of commission. High on emotion was nice and all, but there was something to be said indeed for attention to detail and dedication to the sport.

Circumspection or no, Faith must have picked up on her tone, because she actually chuckled. “Big guy lost points after you got junior under your belt?”

“Oi!”

“Well…” It would be rude to diss anyone openly, but… “No comment,” Buffy answered finally, lamely.

Spike snorted again.

“Guess maybe I didn’t miss much there, then.”

/Well. Good to know that never happened. Not that I really care anymore, but… Mystery solved./ “Who knows. Maybe he’s better now he’s had more time to season the soul and get some practice in.” Buffy shrugged diffidently. “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

“Two hundred seventy years, give or take. He’s had plenty of practice,” Spike opined blandly. “Git’s just spent it practicing the wrong bloody things is all.”

“Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

“Gonna shag you into the floor when we get home.”

Buffy smiled at everything but her guy, as the temperate darkness rolled around them. “What happened to all those extravagant promises about public club sex?”

“Damn, girl! Get it, B!” 

“Here is the entrance to the lair of _La Silenciadora_ …” Solmon’s voice pierced the gloom of fading streetlamps here at the edge of town as he called from ahead of them to draw them in. 

Faith made a sour face at their objective. “We have arrived… and color me shocked.”

They drew even with the rest of the party, and Buffy mimicked her sister’s expression. /Damn./ She had totally seen it coming, even though she might rather have wished she hadn’t. /God, why couldn’t it have been a cave, somehow, or…/ 

They were standing in front of a manhole cover. Because of course it was going to be a sewer. /How did I know? And why do I ever dare to dress to kill anymore; even when I’m retired? It’s like waving a red blouse in front of the Powers, just _daring_ them to give me a night off./

Also, she was wearing heels. Granted they were boots, but they were new-ish, not to mention suede. And it wasn’t like she was super loaded with sweet shoes anymore, and, just, dammit. /Why the hell didn’t I wear the flats? I should’ve worn the flats. See, this is _exactly_ what happens when I try to dress up./

At least she had second-guessed the open-toed ones at the last minute. That would have been a true and absolute disaster.

As they gathered around the manhole cover, Solmon didn’t seem all that disposed to prying up the thing to lead the way. “Once within, you will descend to a…” A clawed hand waved in the air. “The platform, _si?_ From there, you will not need to go lower, into the depths.”

/Well, there’s some good news./

“If you will go to the right, there will be a gateway. It must be lifted. Behind it, a tunnel. Beyond this, rougher, a small journey. On the other side of this, she nests.”

“Gather from this blow-by-blow that you won’t be accompanying us,” Spike muttered laconically, and crouched to pry up the cover. The familiar odors of sewer flowed up immediately, redolent in the night. 

/Joy./

“I must not be seen to be a party to this… blasphemy. _Las Asesinas_ are known to participate in such actions, but for me, _un Lider_ …”

“Understood, Solmon,” Buffy told him blandly, eyes on the hole of darker darkness in the street. “Well, bottoms up, huh? Wil, you wanna conjure one of those fancy little lights of yours?”

Wil began to wave cupped hands over each other in a circular motion; a wordless conjuration that would bring about one of those wisp things in short order. “Do they always have to smell so…”

“Sewer-y?” Xander put in, pinching his nose.

“Special bouquet to the older ones,” Spike informed them all conversationally. “Nothin’ says sewer like one’s been around since the sodding seventeenth century…” How he was standing it was anyone’s guess, with his enhanced vampire olfactory equipment.

“You know what?” Faith told them all, and pulled a stake out of her belt. “You guys talk too much.” And striding past Spike’s upheld arm, she ducked and jumped right in. Her voice echoed up from the inky darkness. “I wanna get to the action.”

“Well, now I just look bad,” Buffy informed everyone else, and grimly followed suit. 

The fall wasn’t much. Maybe ten feet. She landed like a cat, crouched to touch fingers to the echoing platform in the inky blackness, felt the corrugated steel beneath her hand, and rose, aware of Faith as a warm, breathing presence a little to her right. She could hear sluggish fluid noises to her left, where she felt naked without Spike, and a wide openness beyond Faith that said the tunnel continued in that direction. “Homey,” she murmured, aware her voice would echo in the enclosed space. No need to set up a claxon warning the resident demon that its den had been broached. 

“Totally,” Faith breathed in reply. “Where’s the cavalry?”

“Waiting for the light, probably.” She glanced up. “Coming, honey?” she called lightly.

“Thought I’d hold the door for the humans. Dunno why I’m bein’ such a gentleman.” A light, grating clatter sounded upstairs as Spike slid the manhole cover aside as gently as possible to avoid alerting their quarry of approaching death, and then a soft rustle. Buffy moved to the right a little, as Faith had done before her, and her guy dropped into the darkness beside them like a pale meteor.

The second he was at her left, everything felt better. 

“Cramped,” he informed them as he took in their pitch-black surroundings. 

“Anything else?” Buffy asked, perfectly aware that he could see things in this (lack of) light that she could only hope to sense. 

“There’s a safety-railing on the platform, luckily.” He vanished from her side briefly, and there was a sort of light clicking noise, faintly metallic in the lightlessness. “Clip-on; not bolted together or anything. Here.” And Buffy felt something pressed into her hands. A long, cool rod. “Heads up, Faith.”

Another rod sailed through the air, close enough that Buffy ducked a little in just in case. To her credit, Faith caught the thing by sound, to judge by the _thwack_ of palm striking metal. “Thanks,” the other woman answered dryly.   
  
“You have one for you?” Buffy asked softly.

“Yeah. Enough for the boy, too, if he wants one. Whole bloody railing comes apart like an Erector set. Modern engineering for you; industry by Ikea.” Derision dripped from his voice. “No welding to be had or the like. Though…” He strode away again, leaving Buffy wondering just where the hell he was going now. “This is more like. Old-fashioned handiwork, this.”

“See, I can get behind _this_ vampire,” Xander muttered, descending the ladder with a sudden, shockingly bright ball of conjured light bobbing behind his left ear. “Spike; champion of the working man. Who knew?” He hopped down from the bottom of the clanking metal contrivance to turn for the other end of the platform, while Buffy was still blinking in the new radiance. “Whatcha got, Undead?”

“Some kind of portcullis or grate or somesuch. Locked. Probably how we’re gonna get to the old bitch, if we can get it open…” 

“Lemme have a look. Maybe we can jimmy the lock…”

“If not, me an’ the girls can just force it. ‘S not like it’s too bloody heavy, put enough of us on it…”

“Nah, that’d make too much noise, without opening the chain up first. We don’t wanna give away the element of surprise…”

Willow, descending the ladder behind Xander, was shaking her head as she jumped off to join Buffy and Faith. “Who knew they could get along so well, huh?”

Buffy watched them, eyes now fairly well-adjusted to the glowing orb hovering above the scene. The low light glistened nastily off of damp, oozy concrete walls filled with old, rotten divots and algae, showing her that the whole space was only about five feet in diameter, the platform they were on taking up most of the available area at three feet wide by about seven feet long. It was also rusty as heck. 

You’d think a town with 80k people could manage to put together some decent-sized sewers. Though, judging from her time in Rome, she was probably just really spoiled, after Sunnydale, which had, to be fair, been built up over the top of sewers constructed to double as a network of demon thoroughfares. “I know, right? It’s kind of freaking me out.”

“Let’s go interrupt the love-fest,” Faith put in, stalking toward the two-man crew. “Boys, boys; mind if we have a look?”

Spike, bent over what looked to be a very old and rusted padlock, turned to her with a frown on his face that put those two little lines between his eyes. “Haven’t picked a lock in ages. Don’t even carry the tools on me anymore, like a pillock…”

“Well, then, shove over, sailor. I’m always carrying.” And she casually bumped him with her hip. Did the same to a gaping Xander, knocking them both out of the way.

Xander just stepped aside without comment beyond spread hands. Spike looked amused and admiring as she bent over, setting aside her fence-rod to have a look. 

Buffy rolled her eyes. /Of course you have burglary materials on hand, Faith. Just in case./ You could take the girl out of jail, but… 

Brown eyes lifted to touch hers, and a little smile lifted cherry-red lips as Faith shrugged slightly. Then her hair fell back to cover her face as she returned to her illicit task. “You never know when it’ll come in handy, B.” _Click_. “Case in point.” The padlock slid free, and the chains parted. “We’re in.” she straightened and tucked a slim, folding case of tools back into the inside breast-pocket of her short, leather jacket. “Though, you’d think that Solmon dude might’ve given us a key or something, since we’re doing him a hell of a favor.”

“Maybe he thought we’d like a challenge,” Xander muttered. 

From behind Buffy, Willow piped in. “Or, you know, he might’ve thought, ‘Hey, they have a witch with them who could’ve done all that in five seconds…’ but you know, whatevs.” 

Okay, the sarcasm was real. “Hell, Willow, sorry. Didn’t even think about it.” Faith actually sounded slightly ashamed of herself.

Willow shrugged. “Hey, far be it from me to get in the middle of this mini-pissing contest of yours.”

Spike threw Wil a look with daggers in it. Faith just smirked and turned back to the doors, aplomb restored. 

/Oh, for fuck’s sake./ “Wil…”

“We’ll let you Alohomora the next one, chica. Use that witchy mojo,” Faith interrupted, and nodded at Buffy, Spike. “We gonna get this, or what?”

Willow narrowed her eyes as Buffy passed her to set aside her own fencepost deal and help lift the rusted old grate. “You read ‘Harry Potter’?”

Faith shrugged off Wil's shock, all blasé. “Saw a couple of the movies. Even bothered to read a couple of the books." Off Willow's amazed look, "Hey, I read. Read a helluva lot for a while there. Had a lot of time on my hands.” The lipsticked smirk widened. “Some philosophy too. Gender theory, shit like that." Her amused eyes glanced away to land on Buffy. "If you get the top, B, I’ll get the bottom, and your guy can crack it loose up there. If that works for you?” she finished in a quick aside to Spike.

In answer, Spike grasped the upper bars and gave them a solid jerk. Rust flaked down in chunks the size of dragon scales, to litter their hair like metallic dandruff. 

“Nice.”

“Sorry, pet.”

“I’ll live. Is it loose?”

“Guess we’ll find out. Count of three?”

“On three, or three-and-go?” Faith asked easily. “Don’t know your guys’ system.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “One, two, _pull!”_

Two Slayers and a Slayer-fed vamp. The results were fairly predictable. The grate moved so well it damn near ripped out of its slot. The mortar around it crumbled. There was a little bit of a screech as the remaining rust gave way, though luckily not as much a one as there could have been. 

Spike held the thing up for a while they all stilled, waiting with four hearts beating and one body unbreathing, listening for any reaction from down the resultant, tiny tube of a tunnel. Heard no response. /Hopefully She of the thousand ears will pass it off as someone screwing around with sewer maintenance or something./

After a minute or so, Spike shrugged and nodded toward the hole. Picking up her abandoned length of fencing, Buffy lifted an eyebrow at Faith and mouthed, “Rock, paper, scissors?”

Faith rolled her eyes and gestured for Buffy to precede her. “This is your gig, B,” she husked back. “Prove your point. Got your back.”

The rest of the group trooped in behind them, Wil putting out her little light after a quick look-see, in case it announced their presence. The view it revealed, by the way, was not promising, if sans apparent drop-offs, rough spots, or lurking sentries for the first several yards. Spike took up the rearguard, to carefully lower the grate behind them. 

‘Trooping’ turned out to be sort of a strong word, really. It was more ‘creeping’ or ‘stooping’, depending on size of participant. The rough tunnel to the cave of _La Silenciadora_ was maybe two and a half feet in diameter in some places, opening up into three in others. Not so comfy, especially with the whole feeling around to make sure there was no sudden hole in front of them, and keeping the senses open in case of guardians. A lot of work to try to keep the long rods they carried as makeshift weapons from clanking on the sides or scraping along the floor as they felt their way. Kind of nerve-wracking. And it was _long_ , traversing maybe five, six hundred feet before it started to open up into something sort of vaguely lit-looking out of the pitch blackness ahead. 

Buffy slowed to a crawl as she neared the exit, hovering just outside the faint halo of light from what appeared to be some sort of glowy, fungus-looking stuff on the walls of the cavern beyond the mouth of the tunnel. Whatever it was, it appeared very bright to her eyes after the complete darkness of the long traverse, and she spent a moment blinking and allowing her vision to adjust before she crept soundlessly forward to broaden her view. 

At first she didn’t see the ear-monster. Which was understandable, since it was a pretty decent-sized chamber. In and of itself that was kind of a feat, considering the fact that the bedrock around this part of Andalucia was basically just a bunch of old seafloor; not really cave-material. But maybe this was an ex-sea-cave, frozen in time and buried under sediment? Or it had been carved out just for this handy local demon-lord to use as her throne room, who knew. Anyway, this was no tiny bubble, and it took Buffy a second to case the space and catch a glimpse of the monster. 

After a few passes, though, she finally caught the edge of a stumpy, clawed, scale-armored leg. Followed it up along the edge of a neck. And saw the beginning of that series of ears. Which, okay, ugh. 

Who really needed that many, just hanging out there like that; like toadstools on a dead tree?

She couldn’t see the thing’s face, and right now she was really not looking forward to the time in which she would have to. At least for now this glimpse gave her an idea of size.

Twisting her body to lean back against the curved tunnel wall, she held her hands up in the light and made a few gestures to the troops at her back. ‘Estimated length, about twenty feet. Estimated height, about fifteen. Estimated heads, two, on two necks. Estimated ears, no clue. Short legs. Tail, one. Fighting ability… shrug.’

Wil tapped Faith’s shoulder. Faith leaned out of the way, and Wil made a few gestures; pointed at her eyes, cupped her hands, then dispersed them.

Sure, okay. She would whomp up her spell in here, prep it to shut up the demon so it couldn’t scream them all into a stupor, but she had to get eyes on it before she could release the mojo. Good call, though, to have it ready so she could trigger it once they all piled out, since loud noises in confined spaces were pretty much not of the good. Eardrums go boom in situations like that; at least in Buffy’s experience. 

So not an experience, by the way, that she wanted to repeat, considering she had already nearly lost her hearing more than once, between blowing up Judges without proper hearing protection, and participating in attacks on Initiative compounds, and helping to take down giant Old Ones… 

Giving Wil the go-ahead nod, she cut her eyes to Faith, signaled a ‘you go take one head, I take the other’ sort of approach. Faith nodded once, sharply, white-knuckled on her weapon, eyes hard and clearly hungry for carnage. Man, she was a lot like Spike sometimes. 

Speaking of whom; she couldn’t see her guy in the dark except as an edge of a sort of pale blur back there, past Xander’s dark blob, but that was fine. She knew exactly where he’d be once the fight got off the ground. He’d be wherever she needed him to be most.

He always was.

Willow had her eyes closed, hands cupped together. A faint light began to grow between her hands, and her lips were moving soundlessly. The hairs on Buffy’s arms began to rise in response to the feel of magicks; a new sensitivity she thought maybe existed in her since she had been invested so briefly with Wil’s abilities during the fight with Amy. She shivered, trying to shake off the feeling, rubbed at the back of her neck where the short-hairs jangled in a silvery way; not like a vamp-vibe, but…

Wil gave a faint nod.

/Alright; let’s do this./ Anything to get away from that feeling.

Turning for the exit, Buffy dove out of the tunnel, Faith right behind her. Wil must have been just on their heels, because the instant they piled out and spread in opposite directions to take the two—exceedingly ugly, snaggle-toothed—heads snaking out to attack them, and the high-pitched shrieking began, her voice sounded behind them, a sharp, commanding, _“Tacere!”_

The incredibly irritating, sharp whine cut off as if it had been sliced with a knife. The bulbous eyes of the creature bulged in shock and outrage. And two heads darted toward Buffy and Faith, maws agape, dozens of growth-like ears along each neck flaring red and blue along the edges like iridescent, scintillating flares of rage. 

It was kind of pretty, actually, now it wasn’t coupled with deadly shrieking. 

“Can’t we all just get along? I mean, we wouldn’t even be down here if you could just live with people and their noise…”

A soundless growl, and a vast bite, meant for Buffy’s head as she skipped back, swung to block. “Guess not so much.”

“Stop playin’ with the bitch, Slayer, and let’s get on. Somethin’ like this isn’t gonna back down. Look at that.” Swinging into his accustomed place at her left, Spike dodged around to scuff at a spot on the floor. 

Ducking under another feint from the writhing head, Buffy stared… at a whole row of desiccated, withered strips of what looked like brown, puckered leather on the rough floor, all stacked and glued into a weird little wall about four feet high by three feet…

/Oh, ugh. Last year’s tongues. And the year’s before that, and the year’s before that, and the year’s…/

That was, by the way, a hell of a lot of tongues.

Swinging away with an unconscious flair of his duster—he was sexy as hell partially because he half didn’t pay attention to that fact—Spike gave the head weaving above them a whack, then ducked smoothly underneath and tried for a jab at the other as Faith darted to one side of her own stroke, while Buffy covered him from behind and went for an eye. As weapons went these things were blunt and bludgeon-y, but they’d work eventually. 

Spinning between them, basically plugging holes wherever he was needed, Spike darted under the two necks, swiped some ears away. The demon screamed soundlessly once more, rearing back. Faith grinned and made a flying leap onto one stumpy leg, gained the thing’s back, started whacking it on the back of her chosen head. Showboat. 

The weak point was clearly the ears. Buffy gave up fucking around with the face and teeth and, with a whack to the chin that broke off a dangling saber-tooth, dodged under and shaved off a few more aural appendages. The demon bucked some more, throwing Faith off in the process. 

“Hell, B; I was trying out for rodeo queen!”

“Gotcha!” Xander exclaimed, having ‘caught’ Faith mid-fall, more or less by crumpling underneath her. It saved her from hitting the worn-smooth floor, which was nice of him.

“Thanks for the soft landing.”

“Hey, what are friends for?” He struggled to his feet and scrambled away, smile-wincing dopily, and dodged back into the fray, mostly whaling at the thing’s relatively impervious hindquarters. 

Wil’s hair had gone white around the edges. “The more you piss her off, the harder it is to hold this spell. She’s really… incredibly loud. I need you guys to stop poking at her and finish her off, fast.” Her voice sounded kind of strained.

“If… we… only… knew… _how!”_ Buffy pointed out, hacking away at ears and dodging vengeful darts of a toothy maw. She almost went down once, the footing was so variable in here. Good in some places, because sandstone, uber-slick in others from hundreds of years of pacing around... and they needed to get this done. If she didn’t think the thing would probably just regenerate the ranks of ears, she might assume they should just call it a day and bail, since sans most of said appendages the thing couldn’t be too worried about human noise-levels for a while now anyway.

Either way, right now it was going to want vengeance, which was probably not of the good.

“Cutting off heads usually works, pet,” Spike pointed out conversationally from where he stood smacking away at one such.

“Yeah, I’d like to see you do it without a sword, Blondie,” Faith answered grimly, swinging beside him with workmanlike precision.

“‘F I knew we were headin’ into a fight tonight, would’ve geared up.”

“See, there’s your problem, Spike,” Xander pointed out, dodging a swipe from an irate tail. “You always gotta pack heat when wandering around with the Buffster. Figured by now you’d know better.”

“It hasn’t been like that here, Xan,” Buffy muttered, ducking a swing, and made a serious attempt to drive her blunt instrument through the soft underside of a descending jaw, to little avail. “No real action here since Christmas except for that one fledge…”

“No wonder you’ve been putting the vamp through his paces,” Faith quipped, and high-kicked the other face shut before it could take a snap out of her shoulder. “After the hellmouth there’s probably only so much vacation a Slayer can handle.” She grinned and nudged Spike, then ducked another swing from the monster demon, sliced off a few more ears. “Makes sense why you’re in such good shape.”

Spike growled and dodged between the heads, driving all his weight behind his weapon, into the gap between necks. “I think I hear a heart.”

“Bang Faith on that, will you?” Xander asked. “I so don’t need to hear about your life as a sex toy.”

“We can use your head, since you forgot a hammer.”

“Hey! I wasn’t planning on building anything tonight!”

Buffy dodged around the latest feint from her own side, came down hard next to Spike, started to shove. “Xan, help cover us! And shut up!”

Xander moved into position to try to distract the heads while they did their best to gouge the blunt stake deeper into the scaly body. It slid in slowly, by incredibly minimal increments. Spike groaned, pressing with all his strength, teeth bared. Buffy pushed beside him, probably turning purple from effort, definitely sweating. 

“Hurry!” Wil gasped, and her voice was shaking. 

“Dammit!” Faith yelled, and tossed Xander her bar. “Keep them off us!” And she threw herself on the other side of the thing, grabbed on.

With the addition of a third set of hands, the impromptu metal stake slid home with a resounding _tchunk_. A vast gout of something that might be classified as blood exploded hotly over hands, arms, splashed toward chests and throats. The creature writhed with a soundless roar, knocking all three of them askew where they sagged, panting against razor-sharp scales. Huge heads whizzed above theirs, unable to reach them and just missing their hair, Xander shouting incomprehensible things and banging against teeth. Buffy could hear him wailing distantly as he swung, felt herself flailing and thumping against rough, sharp edges as the thing’s galvanic response to death trembled her form in a sort of whiplash effect. 

And then the spell broke; thank god near the end of the struggle, so that the only sound was a last, trailing, incredibly high-pitched whistle of a shriek; though that, still, was enough to pain the ears. 

The three of them fell away against Xander, covering the vulnerable orifices with hands slick with ichor. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but Goddess that was hard!” Willow gasped, sounding utterly exhausted, and wow. The woman could empower thousands across the globe, could draw on enough energy to almost kill the world, but silencing a creature while it was being hacked to bits was apparently a whole other ball of wax. 

Behind them, the two heads thudded heavily to the cave floor, slithered a little in pools of oozy blood. 

/End of _La Silenciadora_ , scourge of El Ejido./

From somewhere back in the corners of the cave, Buffy thought she heard rustling sounds, as if thousands of tiny, invisible things were skittering away. Too late she remembered that one part of Solmon’s brief about those brain-crawly-things—Nitus, weren’t they called?—who served the big mama demon… and damn. What if they had decided to take her part during this, jumping into their brains to get them all fogged up with depression or whatever mid-battle? 

Depression was so not a thing Buffy ever wanted to go through again, even imposed from an outside source. She had her bouts with helplessness, anxiety, negative days even now; knew the signs, knew how to struggle through, how to manage. But for the most part her brain chemistry had recovered somewhat from her days immediately post-resurrection, thanks be to Slayer regeneration, or righting the balance or whatever the hell had done the trick. The thought of falling all the way back down again was…

Terrifying. “Lucky for us it looks like the Nitus weren’t serving voluntarily,” she murmured as the rustling died down.

“Oh. Crap,” Xander exclaimed, staring around him with his one eye wide and alarmed. 

“I’m sure we’re all fine,” Wil told her bestie with a pat on the back. She seemed somewhat recovered. “I can do a quick scan as soon as I get my breath back, but…”

“You okay, Wil?”

“Yeah. Just a little bit of heavy lifting. A lot harder to bind something with that kind of magick than with the Dark stuff. You use the Dark magicks and binding’s a piece of cake. Participating in this sort of thing with that kind of magick…” Her face went troubled. “I actually had to take a little from both, shield myself from the Dark with the Light…” At their confused expressions she shrugged. “It’s complicated. Never mind. You use different kinds for different things.”

Buffy exhaled and looked down at her arms, her blouse. “You know, I really should know better anymore than to dress to kill, since it always seems to end up being taken literally by whoever…”

“Look good enough to eat, pet.”

Buffy rolled her eyes at her vampire. “You’re sweet. And incredibly biased.” She plucked at the gore-spattered top, winced. “I was really happy about going to the club tonight, too.”

She could feel him grinning. “Okay, what?” she demanded, eyes meeting his. 

“Wouldn’t do that one any harm, you take it off, run it under some cold water, slide it back on again…”

She lifted an eyebrow in his general direction. “You gunning for a wet t-shirt contest? Because you know you’d have to play.” And she poked at his thin dress shirt, which was equally spattered.

He sobered slightly. “Yeah, well. Think I saw a fountain along the way…”

Buffy muttered something about indecent exposure.

Faith smirked. “This one of those ‘don’t care if you go topless in public’ countries? ‘Cause I can get down with that.”

“I think that’s France,” Willow interjected. “Which, by the way, remind me to visit France sometime soon, Xander.”

“You and me both, Wil.”

They left behind their makeshift assassination tools, made their way back down the uncomfortable tunnel, this time in the light of a fully-functional will-o-the-wisp. Exiting onto the fragrant sewer platform, they headed for the ladder one-by-one, intent on fountains and clean-up. 

And, apparently, for some of them, a little post-fight nightcap. “Well. That was fun.” Faith called as she reached for the first rung behind Spike. “So. Where’s the nearest bar, again?”

Clambering up into the moonlight behind Buffy, Spike lifted his scarred brow in pointed question.

Reaching down for his hand, Buffy smiled.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_un vampiro maestro =_ Master vampire, of course

_el Gremio de las Asesinas =_ closest rendering I could get to 'Slayer guild'

_los violadores =_ the rapists _  
  
Tacere!_ = (Latin) be silent! (I think?)

(Embedded quote re Taoism from Victor Mair. I was kinda really into binaries and duality and Taoist interpretations in my early Wicca-exploration years, so I could really see Willow gallivanting cheerily down that road for a while before realizing it's not that simple. None of nature is so neatly tied up in a bow. Fun, though, to play with the concepts.)  
  
Next chapter, fulfilling extravagant promises of public club sex... among other things.   
:-D


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super grateful for all the support this story's getting; thank you for the comments!   
> Have had to edit some of the Spanish after posting, since a reader's given me some pointers (my familiarity with Spanish consists of Cali Spanglish plus HS Spanish, which is a terrible mish-mash; any mistakes are mine!)
> 
> So, mostly this chapter is lighthearted, sexy club-time and reflecting on that balcony scene (no one needs further mnemonics to know exactly what I'm talking about, hee)... but CW, there is a bit of a downer section near the end where some past stuff with Faith comes up, Xander gets a few too many beers in him and decides it's time to confess and be absolved for his sins regarding some past misdeeds, and everyone has to get into some old ugliness, largely against their will. Which is just awful timing, but that's kind of how real life and people are sometimes; they step on our good times and good vibes when we least expect it, and then we have to get our mood back on an even keel again after it's deflated like a pricked balloon. 
> 
> (Don't worry about that, though, there was a high-class slay tonight, the mood won't have gone far.)

_  
“Authenticity is a collection of choices that we have to make every day. It’s about the choice to show up and be real. The choice to be honest. The choice to let our true selves be seen.”_

* * *

Twenty minutes later they were as cleaned up as one fountain and a follow-up pass at the bathrooms at La Escena could get them, and wending their way through the crowds from the bar toward the small balcony overseeing the dance floor in hopes of getting a few seats. It was early enough in the evening and in the season that they might get lucky, though the place was starting to see a decent influx of locals, it being a Thursday night. Close enough to Friday for some people. 

The people who wanted a ‘beach’ vibe tended to choose La Cantina, down there by the water, but if you wanted more of a dance scene, less ‘margarita and umbrellas’ and more ‘dark lights and bump’, you came here. Spike and Faith were both drinking Jack. Buffy had a favorite picked up from her time in Scotland; lemon Schweppes and gin. Ever the purist, Xander was sticking to a local beer. Wil was having something sweet with an umbrella in it that none of them wanted to try to pronounce. Buffy thought it had vodka in it, though, and was duly impressed. 

That had, in fact, been a hell of a fight, and a hell of a demon. And, from everyone’s perspective, that had been a sort of a crossing of the Rubicon. It wasn’t every day, after all, that you did a slaying on behest of the demon community rather than in spite of it. 

Buffy kind of thought her Scooby friends were a little rattled by the variation; and especially by Solmon’s effusive thanks as they had exited the sewer. He had been hovering in the shadows when they had reappeared, and seemed stunned to see them alive. _“You have freed us,”_ the tallish, toothy, crimson creature had informed them when he’d caught sight of them, and hustled close, large, clawed hands shaking and body hovering without any sign of his previous aplomb. _“I did not think you would, but you have. And she is…”_

_“Gone,”_ Buffy had informed him flatly.

“Mi Viejo!* _I must tell the others. Tonight, please know, all that which passes your lips, it is_ gratis _. I have an arrangement with all evening businesses in this city. Where do you wish to go to celebrate your victory?”_

_“We were thinking La Escena. But if that’s not in your…”_

_“No, it is very good. I will send word. I have excellent relations with the owner of this place. He purchases liquor from me. I will see to it that your drinks, your meals, they are free. Please; enjoy your evening. And many thanks!_ Salud _…”_ And he had vanished around the nearest corner, into the shadows of a building.

“Oh, man; the place is packed up here…” Xander sounded seriously let down. 

It was; seriously populated. 

“Could always flash some fang…”

“Spike.”

“Just sayin’. I could.” At Buffy’s continued stony look, Spike sighed. “Party-pooper.”

“Hey, don’t hold him back, B. Sounds like a good idea to me. And we all know there’s no way you can pretend your halo hasn’t slipped at this point.”

Buffy sighed. She wasn’t sixteen anymore, really didn’t want to go back downstairs into the melee and wade through the growing crowds to find some sticky table and chairs where they’d have to crowd around to hear each other speak; not when there were couches up here, and…

_“Perdon, perdon.”_ A cocktail waiter appeared from out of nowhere to hustle around from the head of the stair. _“Por favor, debo pedirles a todos que se muevan. Estos asientos están reservados.”*_

_“Lo sentimos!”*_ the people on the sofa exclaimed, and started gathering their stuff and standing up. 

“Please,” the waiter said then, turning to them, and waved to the hastily-vacated seating arrangement. 

/Um, okay./ “Did you just tell them those seats are reserved and they have to move?”

_“Si._ Is that not true? It is what I have been instructed to say. Your party is, how is it? VIPs.”

/Well, dang./ Solmon had serious cachet in this town. “Right. Sure. Um, thank you.” It felt awkward as hell, actually, to have been responsible for those people having been kicked out of their seats, but the evictees were already filing down the steps. Explaining the misunderstanding would take too much yelling in a place like this, so why waste the effort? 

Might as well use the vacated spots.

So make use of them they did, Buffy draping herself easily over Spike to warm his wet dress shirt with her body while Wil and then Xan sat off to their right and Faith took a seat to the left of them. They worked their way through the first of their drinks while they absorbed the music—a nice mix of current dance hits and more recognizable stuff from a few years back, all sloshed together with Europop stuff and Spanish music that was only vaguely recognizable because, aside from Faith, they had all been living in Europe for a while now. Head tilted a little and nodding Faith finally shrugged. “Hell. I don’t know half of it, but it’s got a beat. I think I’ll get another drink and head down; find some likely fool or two for the night… Oh. Hell yeah. You’re handy…” They all looked up in surprise as the cocktail guy from earlier reappeared in front of them bearing fresh glasses of the same drinks they had previously ordered. “B, not to sound too much like I’m backsliding, but right now I don’t give a damn which side of the tracks they run; we should definitely do favors for community leaders more often. The perks are _nice_.”

Spike rumbled in agreement, his free fingers trailing up in between Buffy’s breasts where the thin, damp cloth clung tightly. She quivered slightly on the verge of his fingertips; felt her breath catch as her automatic arousal at his touch was heightened by the new sensation… and by the bright, edgy, long-unaccustomed high of battle. 

Catching her response all along fused bodies and their shared blood, his fingers grazed down, pulsed a little under the curve of her breast. On the razor’s edge between tension and the inborn relaxation his touch brought her she exhaled, fought not to whimper, though no one would hear it over the resounding thrum of the music. Clenched her fingers hard in taut muscles beneath thin, conditioned jeans, and felt more than heard him rumble again in approval, into the nape of her neck. 

/ _God_./ 

Shifting her thighs, she hitched herself a little higher his lap, a move Spike followed with, ah… rapt attention. He promptly started purring, his breathing settling in deeper as he turned his head against her neck. Drew in a long, slow breath; scenting her reactions with, she knew, ferocious satisfaction. 

All the hairs on Buffy’s body stood up at attention. So did basically everything else. And the beat of the music, whatever it was, was suddenly one with her pulse, and why weren’t they dancing right now? Or fucking? Or both?

Somewhere off to one side, Faith was lifting her fresh tumbler of Jack in a silent toast and winking flirtatiously at the startled waiter, who blushed a little. “Thanks, cutie.” 

_“Gratis,”_ the man answered, flushing all the more.

“Even better.” That said in a deeply suggestive voice, and yeah; so Buffy was definitely not the only person at the table who was a little high on life right now.

The waiter turned to the rest of them. “If you wish something different, of course…”

“No, uh, this is fine,” Xander answered, sounding more than a little gratified. He was still working on his first beer. 

Willow just blinked, which was unsurprising, since she’d had maybe three sips of her own drink. 

“I think we’re all good for now,” Buffy managed, amazed at how husky her own voice sounded, “though next round I’ll probably get something else.” Smirking, she turned to whisper into Spike’s neck. “Remember that thing we talked about back in Hell-A? And then we talked about it again in Russia, but we never got around to actually…”

She felt his cock jump beneath her, and there was a smug smile in his voice when he answered. “That thing we started in my crypt, but we never really finished it?”

“Yeah, that.” /We should dance. And then _dance_./ She was feeling decidedly antsy, let her lips drift teasingly along the cool skin behind his ear. “Seems good a time as any, huh?”

His hands tightened on her hips, settling her more firmly in place on his lap; and his post-fight arousal, set to simmer, rushed outward to join hers. “Sounds like a plan, pet,” he murmured, and his voice turned decidedly hungry.

She shifted away, going for smoothly businesslike, and lifted her current drink demurely to her lips. “So, what do you think? Since we’re drinking tonight on Solmon’s tab?”

His cock jumped again, and his grip trembled a little on her hips as he realized that she was putting herself wholly in his hands. “Bloody hell.” He cleared his throat and lifted his head to catch the waiter’s gaze. “Next round, we’ll both have double shots of fifteen-year-old Glenfiddich, neat.” And there was a challenge in his eye as he said it.

The waiter took the order without batting an eyelash. “As you wish, _Señor_.”

“Hell, way to make the most of the party! Too rich for my blood, but if you’re gonna do it in style…” As the waiter vanished back down the steps Faith slammed down her second shot of whiskey. “Speaking of… Gotta get my dance on. Gotta move. Tell free-drinks boy where I went next time he shows.” And, slinging her jacket casually over the arm of the long sofa, she rose with sinuous grace to head for the lower level, a prowl already in her step and her intent clear as she made for the dance floor. 

“Wow. She’s quick,” Xander pointed out, and peered into his beer. “I mean, I know she’s drinking the strong stuff, but I’m so not there yet.”

“You don’t have Slayer prancin’ through your veins, Harris,” Spike informed him, fingers now trailing up Buffy’s arms, mid-forearm to wrist and back and edging higher, with clear lascivious intent. “You should know by now it tends to make ‘em edgy after a battle.”

Willow’s eyes flickered over them, took on an amused light. “I think we’re about to see some explicit dancing up here on the balcony, Xander. Better drink up.”

“Huh?” He followed Wil’s gaze, and then groaned. “Oh, jeez.” Lifted his mug to his face. “Remind me to tell that waiter guy to bring me three or four more beers. Or maybe a rum and Coke…”

“Don’t let us drive you to drinkin’, Harris,” Spike told him, fingers inching further up with every circuit. Buffy was holding herself tense at this point, nearly shuddering with anticipation. “We’ll have our party, you have yours, everyone’s happy.”

“Oh God. Wil, you wanna dance? Save my virgin eyes? Or, eye?”

Willow had a laugh in her voice as she answered. “Sure, what are best friends for?” Setting aside her drink on the convenient, low table in front of them, she rose and held out a hand. Xander took it like a lifeline and they joined the small but energetic crowd swirling around the balcony and wafting back and forth near the rail. 

Buffy promptly arched against Spike’s touch, voice ragged. “If you’re gonna do it, do it. You’re driving me nuts.”

He nipped her neck lightly. “So greedy.”

“If you weren’t such a… _God_. Tease!”

He pulled her forgotten drink from nerveless fingers, leaned around her to set it on the table. Settled back behind her… and caught the lobe of her ear gently in blunt teeth. Tugged with determined care, till she was arched back against him once more… and then his fingers rose, this time with firm intent, just to the very edge of the spot where the new bites lay on the insides of her elbows, flirting. 

“I’m going to _kill_ you,” she hissed, breath hitching. 

“My violent love…” He stilled her with another insistent tug at her ear before he released her. “Don’t come yet,” he told her softly… and his fingers slid, impossibly slowly, down and in to caress the bites. To thrum there in time to the pulse of the music, the pulse of her heart; and she was moving helplessly on him, gasping, and her nipples were like rocks, her clit was on fire and she was shaking; and dammit, it was exceedingly seldom that he could coax her into a state of submission, but when he could, they both enjoyed it immensely, because it meant she could just let go, let him lead. 

Well. Sort of. “How _long?”_ she demanded after what seemed like hours, and arched again, aching for him, because that was _all_ he was touching, and she while she honestly probably _could_ come from it, she could really use his oh-so-talented left hand elsewhere for just a second or two…

She honestly could not give one damn if he did take it into his head to put that hand to better use, right here, since by this point she was only vaguely aware of where they were. “Spike!”

“Greedy,” he informed her again, releasing her ear, and nudged her in the butt with his now very impressive erection. She ground back against him mindlessly while his fingers kept on with their evil tattoo. “You want to come, kitten?”

She shivered. He only called her that when… “Dammit!”

His mouth slid to her neck, hovered over his claim bite. A serious threat, that. If he touched her there now she _would_ come, whatever he said, whatever he did or didn’t touch. “You wanna dance, then, pet?”

She stilled. /Oh, crap./ It was one thing to talk about it, roleplay it, imagining a bar full of strangers around them, et cetera. Maybe pushing the envelope of fantasy with her friends right over there and… And…

And, in a way, the entire point. 

“You did ask. You still want it?”

She trembled bodily. But she really, really did. And she was grown up enough to admit it now. 

Shoving up from his lap, she whirled. Probably her eyes were burning as she grabbed his hand. “Shut up!” she hissed… and studiously ignored his chuckles as she all but dragged him up and over to the railing, shoving people aside as she did so. Saw folk clearing to give them space, knew he had definitely flashed a little fang this time, and didn’t give one single damn at this point as she pushed up to find the cool metal bar against her midriff, pressed her hands to it. Felt him sidle up behind her; a certain, recognizable presence known anywhere, setting her being alight. 

“You sure?”

“Dammit!” she answered again, and let go of the bar to grab his hand, dragged it down to her thigh so he had to crowd close. She was thrumming, on fire. “God, yes,” she breathed, shuddering with bare-edged need, and pushed at their linked hands, so that her skirt slid up a little. 

“Christ, Buffy,” he whispered, and his fingers slipped around, brushed one of her bites there, on the inside of her thigh. Her clit was going to _explode_ if he didn’t touch her soon, and she was both incredibly glad she hadn’t worn underwear tonight—planning ahead much?—and kind of mortified right now at how wet her thighs were—like, practically to her knees—and she honestly wouldn’t give a damn right now if he fucked her _and_ bit her, right here in front of god and everybody. 

“Hurry…” she heard herself say, heard him curse, felt him crowd close with an oath that sounded like appreciation… and then oh god, he had his fingers on her, he was rocking her against him, was pushing her against his fingers with his hips, his cock hard against her back, and she was… she was… 

She flung her arm back behind her, around his neck. “No. Not this time. Want you.”

He stilled, shocked… and she trembled. 

“Please.”

“Oh, bloody hell. Buffy…”

A sudden roar of cheering went up around them; the recognition of a popular song. A familiar, slapping pulse thudded, regular and driving, and the entire place devolved into people in singles and twos and threes, gyrating to an old favorite. A damned apropos one, by the way, and, “No one’s gonna notice, dammit, and I _want_ you.”

_‘…You let me penetrate you…’_

He groaned. Buried his face in her neck. She felt his right hand leave her hip. Clenched her own down on the railing, quaking with anticipation and stunned at herself, as he surreptitiously lowered his zipper. Then he was back, whispering in her ear. “Stand on my boots, Love.”

She did, shockingly inside her body for feeling unbelievably beyond herself. Pounding with it. _Alive_.

It took a little dancing, a little maneuvering to the music… which was honestly part of the fun, grinding against him, pushing up against the rail, his fingers still twitching on her clit, and she was _just_ … _there_ when he found her. Lifted her a little, and her leaning over the rail, looking down at all the gyrating bodies below, mouth and eyes wide open when he abruptly ground into her. 

“Oh, fuck,” she moaned; knew he heard her, even over the music. 

And then she was pulled back, hard against him by her hip. “Dance with me, Buffy,” he murmured, and swiveled his hips in that completely sinful way he had; and his fingers were still on her clit, and she was going to come, she was going to…

“Not. Sodding. Yet,” he grated, sounding almost angry at her for being so close. “S’posed to be dancing.” He swiveled again, because he was Satan or something, and his voice went a little breathy as her involuntary response halted them both for a moment, just breathing; backing off from the edge. Then, “Dance with me a while.”

“Oh God…” She wasn’t going to be able to…

His right hand tightened on her hip, his left beating a little finger-tattoo on her clit; a teasing reminder of what she could have, and what she wouldn’t if she didn’t pay attention. “Dance, Love.”

Breath sobbing a little in her throat, she did her best to move with him, aware that she would probably never be able to dance again in any club with her vampire without feeling the cool ghost of his cock just barely, teasingly inside of her, and well aware that was part of his evil plan. After all, he had watched her dance for years without him. This was probably some kind of poetic vengeance. Which… okay. Was… /Oh God…/ 

Breathing. That was a thing she could do. /I’ll dance the other way with him next time, and… And…/ And the way they were joined right now he was in her so shallowly and at such an angle that his every move was hitting her g-spot, which was…

/Fuck./ So many people around her. Her skin felt too thin, every move he made pressing her from the inside out. She was going to dissolve with the world knowing it; she was rapidly losing track of everything. 

Except he was keeping her with him. His low whispers found her ear; hypnotic, telling her just what she needed to hear to wait… and just what she wanted to hear to come. “No one’s watching. But they could. They could.”

His voice kept her wavering on the edge. So close, fighting. His fingers slipped away for a second, helping her to wait, but he never stopped moving, the slow, sliding-shoving tease of him this shallow angle keeping her thrumming on the shining verge of rushing heat, shimmering… “God, Spike, please, oh _God_ …”

_“She’s_ watching you…”

Her dazed gaze snapped into focus. Faith was down there, dancing with two random guys; getting down like there was no tomorrow… but in that moment her eyes had wandered up to the rail… and was that a knowing look in them?

/Oh fuck…/

Her sister-Slayer turned away, grinning, went back to doing something close to this, but nowhere near to this, on the dance floor; something that promised this but didn’t pay it out, and…

“She’s never been this close, to anyone,” Spike whispered to her nape. “But you are. And you can do this… when even she won’t.”

Buffy was coming apart at the seams. 

_‘…You can have my everything! Help me… tear down my reason…’_

“You wanna come, pet?”

She needed to; so badly. “Please,” she whispered. 

“Come for me, kitten.” And he was back to her clit, working her with fierce demand while he plunged into her with as much purchase as he could get at this angle, the pressure striking her just so… and she gave in. Gave it all up, canted back to meet him, uncaring anymore about their pretense at dancing… And his teeth fastened, hard, over his bite like some jungle cat, rocking her as she shuddered, and shuddered, and everything broke inside her, and the shimmering edge turned molten, and caved in, and she definitely forgot how to breathe.

And felt him follow. 

And then _felt_ him follow.

Sobbing for breath, Buffy sagged over the rail and waited for her vision to return, the whirling low club-lights of the place resolving slowly out of the vague kaleidoscope. Heard Spike murmuring in her ear, as he released her, freed his fingers briefly from her vibrating body to taste her... And was he quoting the song? “ _I drink the honey from inside your hive. You are the reason… I’m still… alive.”_

People were still dancing around them as the song dropped into the hard, industrial break. They were the only ones left who were still. And that part of her mind that still lived in self-hate wanted to call her out; ‘Dirty girl, dirty girl’. The forbidden of being with Spike was no longer a thing. No one cared anymore; but this… this was still _so_ good, because she was being bad, and…

“Christ, pet, if I could live on you…”

/You’d never leave, if you could. And God, where would I be?/ Because she so very much would let him. 

She found herself looking vaguely around them, her skin feeling thin as spun glass to his touch. No one was watching, and _god_ , she felt like _everyone_ was. She closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. Her flesh was crazed with the awed feel of eyes, while the world spun like a distant galaxy with them at the center, all unseeing. Even Xan and Wil were dancing over there, off to the right near the head of the stairs; having a blast, completely ignoring them… but they were _there_ , and she had just done _this;_ and _god_ , she felt dirty and done and wonderful and so incredibly wrung out, and…

And, when she opened her eyes, still gasping and hanging a little over the railing, she thought she saw Faith watching her again from below, and looking amused. /Well… that happened. I guess she knows for sure now that… we’re kind of the same in a lot of ways now. She’s… heading back toward good girl and I’m… drifting toward bad girl./ 

Or maybe they were both just landing on being adult fucking women who did what they wanted, what they needed to do to get by. /And is that so goddamned bad?/

Shit, she felt amazing.

Spike pulled her back against him to cool her down, and oh _god_ , her skin was vibrating still. “Buffy,” he whispered her name reverently, like a prayer; his breath a blessing, sifting beneath the curtain of her hair in the incredible swelter of the club. And yet his voice rumbling in her ear was so filled with heat that it almost made her convulse again. And his hand was back under her skirt, and she was wet to probably her boots? And if he wasn’t holding her up her knees were definitely going to give out; and he could feel all of that… and exactly how very much she kind of wanted to do it again, because fuck everyone. “Fucking, bloody Christ.”

Buffy really wasn’t in a place where talking was a thing she could do. “Guh,” she managed after some indeterminate period of time. 

Really, the place she was in was that place where they could probably do that for the rest of the night if they could get away with it, and, /God, I’m awful, I’m so awful, I’m a terrible person, I’m worse than Anya…/ But she was still so, _so_ horny, and why _was_ it that doing this was such a big damned turn-on for her?

“Had to be the good girl for too bloody long, pet,” Spike informed her, fingers drawing little lukewarm lines up her heated sides, under the edges of her almost-shirt, making her shudder. Her overstimulated flesh tried to jump off and attack him, to absorb him. “Someone’s trying to tell you how to live again, when you’ve just stepped out to make the world your own, and done a right good job of it. Your entire being is in rebellion.”

A flicker of shame managed to minnow its way through her sizzling afterglow. /And what, I’m still using you to do it? Because that’s…/

“Hush. You’re just now figuring out who you really are is all. Not who anyone else tells you you have to be; or where, or how. You know how proud I am to be a part of that? How sodding grateful?”

She closed her eyes again, quivered in his arms while the music washed over her. And let herself just be in the moment. 

The song shifted to something new; a dance anthem in what Spike had recently informed her was Romanian, and which mentioned Picasso a lot. It was catchy enough that pretty much everyone remained upright and dancing, which allowed them to catch their breaths without the need for overt observation. 

At some point Buffy came down to earth long enough to realize with some regret that she was going to have to disentangle herself from her vampire and try to figure out some logistical way to get to a bathroom and clean up a little. Which was quite the puzzler, since the nearest one of those was down at the bottom of the stairs, with a massive crowd between her and it, and while she might luck out and avoid too much of a line with a popular song like this on blast, she still had to get there. /Why isn’t teleportation one of my powers?/

/Probably should’ve worn underwear./

Well, this was what happened when you didn’t think ahead. You paid the price. “Remind me why I went commando, again?”

Spike nuzzled at her neck, then lifted away a little. “Made this part easy. Next part less so, I ‘xpect…”

“Ya think?”

He sighed and surveyed the crowed with her. “I’ll plough the road for you, yeah?”

She leaned back against him for a moment, gathering strength for the necessary ordeal. “Such a gentleman.”

The comment earned her a self-mocking scoff. But he really was, despite his protests for form’s sake. After he disengaged from her, to the tune of a grunt from him and a faint whimper of disappointment from her, he escorted her single-mindedly, eyes front and focused, all the way down, shouldering their way through the crowd with that… that _guy_ thing that said he didn’t give a damn who he smacked into and didn’t remotely question his right to occupy space. Which normally wasn’t something Spike did as much as most guys did, and really when he did it it was more of a predator-among-the-sheep thing than anything. Which officially meant that it should set off what remained of her Slayer-alarm-bells, except she had basically completely re-translated all of hers around him so that they no longer properly registered. Not to mention that she was more or less completely distracted by the state of her nether regions, so she let him make space for her in the sea of humanity in order that she could make it to the door of the bathroom without undue struggle. 

He even waited with her in front of the door till the (admittedly small) line vanished inside, then gave her an almost-chaste peck on the cheek before she went through. “Be out in the smoking pavilion, Love.”

“Okay.” She lifted her eyes to his, enjoying his still-mildly-dazed afterglow-look. Not easily seen to anyone who didn’t know what to look for, but it was there, in the fuzzy blue of his eyes, the relaxed line of his body, the forever-slightly-awed expression hovering about his lips. “I love you, Spike.”

Long, cool, callused fingers traced her cheek. “Not enough words in any language,” he answered, and evaporated into the crowd with a swirl of dark leather.

_“Ah, tienes un hombre sexy ahí!”*_ the woman next to Buffy exclaimed, dragging her out of her contemplation of vanishing vampire. _“Soy celosa!”*  
_  
“Yes, I do.” /Sexy is right. And mine./ Sometimes she still couldn’t believe it.

She cleaned up swiftly and headed back out to locate said sexy _hombre_ , wading through the crowd now dancing to the severely dated ‘Boom Boom Boom’ by the Vengaboys (it seemed this was some kind of throwback night). Gained the rear of the club and found the smoking porch there. Uncovered to the Spanish spring night, open to the sky, it was luckily well-vented, the muted glow of city lights bouncing off of one wall, the other in shadows. 

She found him easily enough, homing in on the intoxicating, buzzy feel of him, the pull of their link, and moved to where he sat on one of the few stools leaning back against the wall. “Hey.”

He stretched out his arm, holding the remains of his cigarette away from himself to make room. “Hey. Missed you.”

“Greedy,” she threw his words back at him.

“Always.”

Drawing near, still feeling a kind of a way—god, he looked good, all sprawled out like that—she threw what remained of her decorum to the wind. /As if there’s much left of it, right?/ and climbed aboard to straddle his lap. 

He eyed her with clear surprise, gratification, and not a little interest as she rucked up her damp skirt and settled on, slid her fingers into his pockets for anchorage. “Hello, cutie.”

“Naughty vampire.”

He snorted and flicked the cigarette away. It flew in a precise arc to land, perfect and exact, in the can of sand about four feet away. “Naughty Slayer.” And his hands moved to settle in, cupping her ass. Snugged her closer. 

“Yeah, well. Must be the company I’ve been keeping.”

Azure eyes twinkled at her, delighted at what had once been painful, was now a game. “Yeah, sure. Blame the company.”

With a little sigh, Buffy lowered her head, snuggled in against his still-damp button-down, under his chin. He smelled like smoke, leather, fountain water, and sex. The fountain-water part kind of reminded her vaguely of Hell-A, which gave her a zing of nostalgia. “I do. This company is very inspirational.”

“Well… Alright then.” His left hand slid up along her back, stroking. “Christ, I love you, pet.”

“Same.”

Somewhere over to their right, she thought she heard someone male make some kind of comment in Spanish; one couched in indelicate tones and containing the word _‘zorra’_ , which she knew was for sure a comment on her, ah, wanton nature. /Oh, whatever./

Spike, though, tensed as if he were about to take issue, and she felt the surge of rage in him, tempered with that hesitancy she knew was for her benefit; the tightrope he walked, as ever, between very old chivalry and his awareness that she could for damn sure take care of her own self and honor. 

He was adorable, but she preferred to keep her nice, snuggly seat. As such she nipped his throat lightly to keep him in place, then licked the spot, nuzzled some more. In response the low growls promptly subsided back to his standard, subsonic purr of ‘got my mate with me’ contentment.

He did, though, loose one arm from around her ass to flip the guy two fingers. _“Mantén la boca cerrada sobre mi reina, capullo.”*_

She caught ‘my queen’, and she thought the rest was more or less ‘shut your gob’. She definitely caught him calling the guy an asshole. And he could speak Spanish, or any other language, for that matter, any day of the week. Really. “You gonna call me that in bed, later?” she asked his throat softly, and moved around to nip at his neck some more; just below her bite this time. 

He groaned. “Not done with me yet for tonight, is it pet?”

“Never.”

“Bloody hell.” His cock was definitely okay with this arrangement. 

The scales had reset, with her back on top. “Come dance with me?” She needed to get some of her own back before they left.

He exhaled heavily, pulled back to eye her narrowly. “You sure the bloody hell missed slaying, didn’t you Love?”

She cocked an eye at him, smirked. “Maybe a little. Missed _us_ , after, for sure.” She scrambled off his lap, held out a hand. “C’mon. We’ve got some time to make up for.”

“Christ.” He caught her outstretched fingers, let himself be pulled toward the door. “Gonna be the death of me, you.”

“No.” She yanked open the door, to a blast of sound, tugged him in against her body. Ground a little, hip to hip, as the music washed over them. “The life. For each other.”

“Damn right.”

***

How she had never yet gotten around to dancing with her vampire was beyond her. Well. They had danced together at home, sure, but not out at a club. Though, to be fair, the last time she had been out at a club and actually enjoyed herself was pre-Glory. /Well, unless you count choosing to start your affair with Spike at the Bronze. Which, be real, Buffy. You enjoyed the hell out of making out with him, whatever you tried to tell yourself back then. Because it was always more than just relief from dead-girl reality, or you would never have done more than make out with him. You probably wouldn’t even have gone that far./ But as far as any other enjoyment of the place… That had been hard to come by. With a few exceptions, of course.

She’d definitely enjoyed getting fingered by him on the balcony of said edifice, much though she had tried to tell herself she had hated everything about it. That it was disgusting, he was disgusting, that she had relished not one moment of the event… and that she absolutely did not have a blindingly fast orgasm that hit her like a velvet sledgehammer, so hard and unexpectedly that she had been lucky he was there to keep her dignity intact with a few strategically-placed and quietening fingers. The shame of which encounter had totally put paid to any thoughts of ever setting foot in that particular establishment again thereafter; not without serious discomfort anyway. 

She thought she had maybe gone in there again, what, twice? And hated every minute of it. Once with Willow, where she’d sat there morosely and not-danced, nursing a drink and trying not to think about the encounter or how much fun everyone else was having. General depressed-Buffy stuff. Oh, and then there was finding out that Spike had been hunting in the place. Even if it had been under the First’s command, it sure hadn’t helped with regaining a sense of fun and comfort in her old hangout. Not that they had had the time for mindless entertainment, in those last few months. 

Locating Faith and the Potentials thing had so not been a dancing affair, nor had that ridiculousness with Anya’s cursed guy’s ex. Honestly, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d been out dancing at all, but it definitely hadn’t coincided with the Age of Spike. But she could admit now that it was probably mostly her own internal angst that had contributed to her inability to find enjoyment in something as simple as dancing; something she had once found so freeing. It had once been her go-to; the most instinctive a way to escape the exigences of her Slayer’s life. Mindless movement, energy, a throbbing beat, the primal motion of it. Something so old that maybe Sineya herself had once been tamed and made calm with drumming, rattles, chanting… and dancing out on the desert plain, in a circle made to contain her and keep her from running, maddened and lost, amid the wilds far from the human villages she had been made to keep whole.

All that had been lost, in another method of release. A new rhythm; one not made available to so many Slayers before her. Kept from them, even; and she had forgotten dancing. It was good to rediscover it; a way to face her own hungers, her own needs, and all that crap she’d had such an issue with once upon a time. /The way I wasn’t able to, then, with you. Probably because if I ever let myself dance with you, it’d have been like going to actual bed with you. Admitting…/ Admitting that they had had more between them than just sex. /It would’ve been me admitting that I actually enjoyed your company, invited it, even had fun with you once in a while./

Worse than that. /I’d be admitting we were something like a couple. Oh, gasp!/

Pressed against him now, her body moving instinctively with his, she found it strange to realize that they had not put paid to this issue already. With every other metaphorical demon they had managed to slay, every other issue they had faced together, head-on, they had never revisited this particular matter before now. /We’ve been to plenty of bars. How did we miss something as simple as heading in to a club to dance? Does he feel weird about it too? Why? Because of the thing with the First?/ 

Well, whatever it was, Buffy should’ve jumped on this sooner, because just like with so many other things Spike-related, all she had managed to do in this instance was to cheat herself out of a damn good time. 

Too be fair, they had been focused more on snuggles and being kind of homebodies in the last several months, which had contributed to the not-clubbing. Building intimacy, more than finding ways to bang—or simulate banging—in public. /Well, we can go back to being snuggly homebodies tomorrow./ Buffy was all over this dancing thing tonight.

Spike’s body was slightly arced to curve all around hers. His lips were parked just behind her ear, tickling slightly as he murmured things she couldn’t hear, and that was truly unfair. It sent her vamp-tingles haywire and making her want to fling herself all over him, maybe tear his clothes off right here and now. He felt sodamngood in the muggy heat of the club, his room-temperature body moving against hers, and… Dammit, they had always moved well together. Dancing was no exception. _God,_ it definitely wasn’t. /Why the hell did I cheat myself out of this for so long? God, I’m such an idiot./ Dancing with Spike was… 

Well. Essentially it was just a step shy of going to bed with Spike; really just the same moves with a couple of layers of clothes involved. It was sex and lovemaking and intense eyes and fierce, possessive touches bringing them close, and… And the opportunities for dirty grinding with her guy on the dance floor had been severely limited lately, between her own issues, time, and general wear and tear, and she was definitely going to have to remedy that from now on. As much as humanly possible, because _yum_. 

“Don’t have to be anyone’s good girl, pet. Just be you.” And he was cupping her ass now, pulling her in tighter, and _god_ , she heard that somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind where impulse lived, and it took everything she had not to wrap her legs around his waist and drag him down to the floor, because they were just _dancing_ right now, not…

/Alright, Mr. Psychologist./ Her libido was off the charts tonight, between an epic slay and having someone formerly in authority over her telling her he disapproved of her. She hated to think Spike was right about that part, the evidence was pretty extreme. She got shamed, her pride took a hit… and here she was, back at the club telling everyone to go to hell by dancing, getting her drink on, and having extremely public sex on a balcony railing. And, maybe seriously considering a repeat down here on the floor… and honestly, Buffy was having a hell of a time feeling all that very guilty about it, once the first rush of brief, reflexive shame had slid through her mind. 

No one had noticed; or if they had, they hadn’t said anything. /No one _cares_. The only one who does is me, which is why I keep doing it. Which, whatever. It’s fun./

/Or, at least it’ll be fun till the first time I get us arrested, I guess./ 

No. Best to build anticipation for the remainder of the evening. It would make things better for later. So she focused on flinging her arms around her guy’s neck, drilling her gaze into his while he held her fiercely against him, hip to hip, burned her alive with his eyes, and they danced with pretty spectacular abandon down on the main floor.

They had each had one of their two shots of that Glenfinish stuff, which had been smooth enough that Buffy was ready for the next one, though Spike was conscientiously plying her with water between drinks. Fair enough, since he was definitely making her sweat tonight. And high-proof alcohol or no, already had sex or no, she was still riding high on that first-class slay; because after so long without any, and then such a nice solid one, she had a hell of a charge to blow off. This was one of those seven-fuck nights. Spike was so not going to get off that easy, though she contented herself for the moment with riding the energy, rebuilding the charge with him, aware that he was well-aware of what she was doing… and that he was riding it right along with her. 

At some point they decided by mutual, unspoken agreement to head back upstairs for some more of the Glenfinish to polish off the evening, and damn Spike’s vampire constitution for never getting drunk. “Why don’t you, anyway?” Buffy demanded over the music as she semi-staggered up the metal stairway. He would be able to follow the conversation. He could always follow her. He’d certainly hear her, loud-ass club beat or no. He was a damn vampire.

“It’s the circulation bit, pet,” Spike answered easily, proving her right without issue. “Stuff percolates through my stomach lining well enough, sure, but as it doesn’t have a heart to pump it about through my bloodstream and up to my brain, it has to get there by sheer blood-volume.”

Buffy stopped mid-slog to turn her head back and stare at him in sudden, mazy comprehension. Behind them on the steps, someone protested in Spanish because she was holding up traffic. She ignored the exclamations. “Are you saying you’d actually have to drink enough alcohol to practically replace all the damn blood in your body before it can float enough up to your brain to make a dent?”

“Something like that, yeah.” He grinned wickedly at her, just daring her to ask.

/Okay, wow./ “Did you ever _do_ it?”

A dismissive little shrug. “Tried once or twice. Dead dangerous, though. Need the blood as well, yeah? Might bloat.” A speculative lift of the eyebrow. “Not sure it’s entirely possible that way.”

/Wait./ “So you’ve been drunk.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Okay… how?”

The grin turned to a smirk. “Borrow the blood of a person as is already three sheets, pet. Let some other poor tosser do the work, innit? Then the vamp in question gets the dividends without the cost, as the pulser’s already got the mix right.”

Buffy stared at him for a second, then shook her head in mock-disgust. “That’s just cheating, preying on drunk people.”

“Yeah, well. Easy pickings, cheap high. What can I say?”

Rolling her eyes, Buffy resumed her laborious upward trek. “And here I thought you once prided yourself in being a meticulous hunter.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I did it a lot. I just said it’s happened.”

“Uhuh.”

She had almost gained the head of the steps when she stopped again, belatedly floored with the impact of his previous words. “Tried once or twice, as in… when?”

He halted too, but this time he didn’t say anything. And, tellingly, the link between them went blank.

/Oh, hell./ The world became a brief, drunken whirl; tilted, straightened in painful clarity as it followed the swoop of her gut.

She had for sure seen all the bottles in his crypt during their ill-fated tryst. Seen quite a few littering the kitchen of his shitty apartment in LA. /Goddammit, Spike./ Could a vamp dust himself by methodically and completely replacing all the blood in his body with alcohol? Because it may never have been documented, but she was kind of sure her guy had damn well given it his best shot more than once since they’d gotten together. 

“Didn’t manage it, Buffy.” Because there was no point in his lying, and they both knew it. 

Nausea swamped her. “Dammit, Spike.”

“Is what it is,” he informed her over the thudding beat. “Wasn’t tryin’ to dust myself. Just tryin’ not to feel. Big Bad vamp in love with the Slayer? What the bloody hell is that?”

She closed her eyes and nodded. /Okay, but…/ “Slayer in love with the Slayer-killer? What the bloody hell is _that?”_

She felt the rush of amused confidence as it rippled between them, restoring her from drunken, whirling, past pain. “Could’ve clued me in to that bit of the equation, pet. Would’ve helped.” 

/Yeah, well./ “Would’ve had to clue myself in first.”

He was behind her then, lips against her neck. “Sure.” Wrapped his cool hands around her overheated belly with fingers splayed dangerously low, pulled her against him. “Any time you wanna use any of my words against me, Buffy, feel free. That was hot as hell.”

“Yeah, well, don’t count on it too often. I’m drunk.”

“Did notice that.” He was grinning again, a felt thing against her nape. “Which means I’m countin’ on havin’ you on your knees when we get home, your clit in my hand like a ripe cherry like to burst, and you moaning and screaming so loud for me to let you come that the neighbors’ll hear you all the way to sodding France when I finally bite you and ride that lovely drunk you’ve got goin’.”

/Fuck./ “You talk a good game,” she heard herself whisper for what was probably the tenth time tonight. But dammit, he really did. And he knew that buzzed, she tended to be uncharacteristically… well, submissive wasn’t exactly the right word. It came and went. But her bossiness wandered more toward incoherent begging and wanton, breathy demands that he have his way with her in whatever fashion he saw fit as long as he did it hard and long and made her see the bright, shiny lights for as extended a cut as he could manage. You know, general, loose abandonment. 

It was a novelty he seemed to enjoy for some odd reason.

_“Oye! Te moveras?”*_

Broken free from their moment, Buffy shook herself. “I think we’re holding up the line.”

Spike nodded against her neck, gave her a promising sort of nibble that sent shivers all along her body. “Got a bit of a queue behind us, yeah. S’pose we’d best get on.” And he gave her a little shove, butt first. Got a little fondle in while he was at it, of course, because evil-ish.

She enjoyed his evil side a lot more than she would ever have admitted a few years ago, if she was being truthful.

Back at their seats, they found Xander and Willow the only current inhabitants. Faith had apparently returned only once to avail herself of their private server and reclaim her jacket before vanishing back into the crowd. “She’s seriously getting her dance on,” Xander pointed out, nodding down at the lower floor. “I think I’ve seen her try on at least three chumps so far. Still hasn’t found the right fit for the night, though, ‘cause she’s still out there.”

“More power to her,” Buffy answered, and shot Willow a brief glance. “Sometimes after some action you have a lot of leftover juice running through you that needs spending. Or at least that’s how it is with slaying.”

Willow’s expression twisted a little. “Yeah. It, uh, can be like that with the magicks too.” 

/I thought so./ Buffy wondered briefly if Wil and Kennedy had ever both gotten juiced up some night and… 

/You know what? Abort. Abort. Though that was probably what made things work so well with her and Tara, and you know what? We’re gonna file _all_ of this under ‘drunk thoughts to forget’./

Shaking his head beside Buffy, Spike grunted and tossed back his whiskey in a single gulp. “Reckon she’ll find a bloke as thinks he’s a right stallion, rut with the poor lad for a bit, run him right into the ground, leave him gelded, maybe pick up another one or two before the night’s over. Poor human lads. No stamina.” He shot Xander a quick, prodding, sideways glance. “Present company excluded of course. What do you do, then? Ask Red for a quick, magickal bit of Viagra and a shielding spell before you hit the sheets with wee Renee?” 

/Okay, I thought you said you weren’t drunk./ Though, really, this was just Spike, poking at people when he was still a little demon-side-up.

Xander made a face at him. “Ever occur to you that we just have chemistry, Undead?” It came out without any real heat, though, which was surprising considering their history of mutual needling.

Spike smirked and set down his glass. “Had chemistry with Faith too, was it?” and did he _want_ to get into a fight?

Xander looked away. “No, she uh… I mean…” He bit his lip then, looking abruptly uncomfortable. All too late Buffy remembered something, and oh, damn. 

She elbowed her vamp, hard, in the ribs, hissed at him to shut the hell up. Rubbing at the spot, Spike shot her a confused ‘what did I do?’ look, but Xander was already rubbing his face. “No, we didn’t, really, but you know. It was my first time, so I thought we had something. Which means when I went back to try to bank on that, help her reconnect with us when she was going bad, she didn’t take it so well. She did kind of a dark-side flip on me.” A little, pained shrug, complete with some seriously averted eyes. “I actually think it started out as trying to teach me a lesson, you know. A ‘you don’t really know me just ‘cause we hit the sack once’ thing, a ‘don’t try to know me, let’s just make this a sex thing’…”

“Oh, Xander,” Willow breathed, anguish in her voice for him.

Buffy felt her insides shaking, felt how tense Spike had gone beside her. All this, over the loud music, in the worst possible place. It was surreal.

Xander was shaking his head, his expression mostly hidden by his lowered face and his voice weirdly calm, like he was recounting something that had happened to someone else. “…I don’t think she cared that I didn’t want that then, because that was how she knew to shut me up, you know? And then I think she was trying some breath-play thing and it just got out of hand. Like, I don’t think she was actually trying to kill me or anything, but she lost it because she was dealing with all the stuff she was dealing with, and I was just… there. Trying too hard, so I was the target who was available. Convenient. And, you know, I didn’t know about any of that stuff back then. Edgy stuff, or how to say no in a way she could hear me, even if she would. Which I dunno if she could right then, because she sure didn’t seem like she was gonna stop.” The faintest tremor touched the blasé delivery, and Xander’s head slowly lifted, a mock-cheerful note entering his voice. “And then I passed out, and… I woke up… not there, so… It’s all good, right?”

Buffy had never heard this part of the story. None of the gory details, and oh damn. Oh, shit. This? This was why Slayers shouldn’t play with mere mortals. /Between not knowing our own strength and that dark side peeping out, and all those violent hungers mixing with sex…/ 

It was just a bad plan when it got out of hand. And otherwise, it was all about being too controlled, which was way no fun at all. “Xan, you never said…”

Xander held up a hand, lifted his one eye to hers, and to her surprise, his expression had gone weirdly determined, weirdly stony. “There’s, uh, a lot of things I never said, Buff, and I, uh, gotta say something like that now, while I’m still full of liquid courage. Gotta tell you something I’ve needed to say to you for a long damn time.”

“Uh, okay?” The change of direction was giving her whiplash.

Willow seemed thrown too. “Xan, what… You’re seriously shaking.”

“I know, but hold up, Wil, this is serious. And it’s something Buffy and Spike both need to hear.”

“Oh, bloody hell.” Leaning over the table, Spike grabbed up Buffy’s largely-untouched tumbler, swigged from that one as well. “That’s never good.” 

Xander ignored him. “Right. Okay.” Pulling a visibly deep breath, he nodded as if encouraging himself, then turned his stare directly on Buffy. “I never forgot what happened when I was part of the hyena pack. I lied about that.”

The floor dropped out beneath Buffy’s feet. The seat beneath her vanished. She couldn’t breathe. /What what what…/

“Oh Goddess, Xander…”

“So maybe what happened with me and Faith was karma. I don’t know.” He didn’t spare Willow a glance. His eye on Buffy’s was liquid with agony. “And I am so, so _sorry_ , Buffy, because I know now, after all these years, that however much I denied it… it wasn’t all the demon doing it using my body. I wanted you, and I let that… that _thing_ give me an excuse to try something I just would never have had the dickheadness—or, obviously, the strength—to try any other time.”

Beside Buffy, Spike had begun to growl. Distantly, Buffy had wondered when he would begin to pick up what Xander was putting down. Holy crap, this was going to be so bad.

Xander must have heard the growl, or at least felt it on the subsonic level. He absently rubbed at the hairs standing up on his arms, shifted in his seat, scrubbed a little at the back of his neck. “And that’s the absolute worst part about it. And, I think maybe that’s part of why I’ve always had such an issue with vamps.” A brief, almost apologetic flicker of the eyes in Spike’s direction. “Because I know what it’s like to have a demon riding around inside you, pushing you to do all those things you always wanted to do and say and never let yourself…”

"Bloody fuck…” Spike whispered, and sagged abruptly against Buffy. His growl cut off as if sliced with a knife.

“…How hard it is to control it, how much of a rush it is to just give in… And I was terrified for you, because you almost didn’t fight me off, and if you… If I…” For the first time, Xander faltered.

The music rushed back in, a pounding beat, like a fever in Buffy’s head. It was like being inside a drum. She couldn’t think, felt like she was being squeezed through a tube. “Xander…”

Xander nodded, as if seeing something in her expression that was all he had expected. His eyes jerked away, moved over to touch on Spike, settled firmly and without any heat. Like meeting a reckoning. “And then I came upstairs that night, and saw her on the floor…”

Buffy felt it run through her vampire. Felt him freeze till it ran through them both, from blood to marrow. /Oh God./

“Saw the duster, and I thought it was like my worst nightmare coming true. I was right all along, and…”

Spike was an unbreathing statue now.

Buffy found her voice somehow. “Xander, it wasn’t…”

His hand shot up to forestall her. “I know that it’s… none of my business. I know that now. That whatever… went on between you two… was between you two. I wasn’t in it. I was projecting my own stuff. And that was super uncool of me. To walk in there at all, into your _bathroom_ , while you were in it. Like I owned the place, just because I felt justified in… in confronting you wherever you were, because I saw the coat, and I thought…” He shook his head, staring down between his open palms, at the floor. “Much less to… label it, hold you accountable for my own fears, blame…” He bit his lip, hands abruptly shaking. “Spout off to Dawn about it, all self-righteous…”

Yeah, okay, Buffy still could kind of kill him for that. It had cost her, and Spike, and definitely Dawn, way too much for way too long… and Spike was a rock again, growling, because he had never known, before now, how Dawn had heard about the bathroom. 

Xander looked away. “Especially since it probably… I mean, I decided what it was. My head filled in all the blanks, and I never let you get a word in edgewise, did I? I was right, and all my trying to force you to be with safe, human guys so that you could be safe from… from people like I was and maybe be with people like I hoped I could be instead… That didn’t work, and it happened anyway, and it was like I never paid my debt, Buffy. The one I owed you.”

“The one you...” She couldn’t even think. This was so long coming that at this point it didn’t even seem to make any sense, wasn’t slotting into her brain in any spot that she could conceive. 

“Xander, what are you saying?” Willow sounded equally confused by this wandering confession.

“I’m saying I owed Buffy a debt I can never pay,” Xander forged on, so seriously that Buffy dragged her stunned eyes back, feeling all too sober now. “For what I almost did. For what I _would’ve_ done, Buffy, if you didn’t stop me. I tried so _hard_ to pay it by steering you what I thought was the right way, but it…” He shrugged ruefully, looking into his hands. “It wasn’t my job, was it? And I never really understood you, did I?”

Buffy sighed and glanced off over through the crowds, down toward the spot where Faith had vanished, looking for someone to ride for the night. “No. It wasn’t. And you didn’t. But I guess it’s good to finally understand why.” Why he suddenly changed. Why he just… shut up, out of nowhere, after she’d brought Spike to live in the basement. When she had finally heard one too many comments about the bathroom and pulled him aside, enlightened him a little on who exactly had been the one hurting whom for most of the foregoing disaster that had been the Spike-and-Buffy show, and told him in no uncertain terms to mind his own goddamned business.

She had been amazed then about how abruptly he had turned into ‘disinterested guy who fixed the windows’, and had zero opinions from then on out; about anyone and anything to do with Spike. He had helped, offered advice about the sleeper-agent thing, but he had proffered nothing when it came to emotion on the subject. 

It made sense, though, if by forcing him to reassess any of it, she had caused him to reassess _all_ of it.

At her side, Spike was very suddenly on his feet and moving for the railing, and oh crap. He was going to bend it, he was gripping it so hard, shit, shit… Buffy could feel the roil of his conflicting emotions banging away at the fading numbness. It slowly percolated through the deadening layer of alcohol like a thousand tiny battering rams as her mate fought to keep a handle on himself. 

Xander watched him for a second, then turned back to her, looking shaken. “Oh, crap,” he muttered as realization struck, “you never told him?”

“It never came up,” Buffy answered through numb lips. Her eyes were riveted on her guy as he struggled with it, torn between two poles. He would, of course, want to rend Xander limb from limb for having ever hurt his mate… but that was on one very primitive level. On the other level, the level where dwelt memory and a permanent weight of guilt he would never entirely shake, there lay what to him would no doubt register, for him, the same as Buffy’s struggle with Maria in Hell-A. ‘Vengeance for this, when I’ve done the same, is asinine, repugnant, an insult to the one I love… and it is not mine.’

/Oh, Spike./ Turning away from her anguished vampire, she faced down her equally anguished friend, sighed. /I’m so not sober enough to have had this stupid revelation sprung on me. This was supposed to be a party./ “Look Xan, I appreciate your telling me, even though the venue is…”

He made a twisted face. “Look, yeah. Okay. It might’ve been totally selfish of me to just blurt it out like this. And probably I’m kinda drunk, and I shoulda waited till tomorrow or something. And I’m sorry. And if Spike wants to kill me…”

“He won’t.” Beside her at the rail, Spike hunched over further, and she could swear she could hear the metal squeak as he ground down, even over the wail of the current dance hit. Cue some wincing.

Xander sighed heavily. “It’s just… Look. I don’t want either of you to think that it was all some big… Like… I get that it probably sounds like I was trying to steer you back toward me, but I so wasn’t. Not really. I’d long since given up on that, okay? The thing with Riley? He was kinda a stand-in for me by then, because I realized that I didn’t deserve you after I… Even if you ever… And besides, Ahn…”

“Xan…”

“No, Buff, Listen. I mean, I wasn’t even good to Anya because of all those stupid issues; between the hyena thing, and Jesse, and, just… I was a dope. A stupid dope, and I’ve had time to regret all of it. And yeah; back then I couldn’t see past my own… I guess it was self-hate, to realize that was what it was, you know? And I’m sorry.” He raised his voice then, lifting it enough that Spike would no doubt hear it from his station, music be damned. “I’m really damn sorry, Spike. I swear to God. It’s just… back then, the trusting… I didn’t get it. When the demon was still there… I couldn’t understand, because when it was me _… I_ couldn’t.”

Spike’s voice, drifting in over the bobbing heads, the pounding beats. “You didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of practice.”

“Yeah. I guess. All I had was… permission. And I… wanted it. And I didn’t get how anyone _wouldn’t_ take that, at some point, and be as filthy and perverted as… As…”

“The magicks gave _me_ permission,” Wil interrupted as quietly as the noise level permitted. “Having a demon in you once doesn’t make you alone in that. We all have our demons, even when we’re fully human.”

Buffy felt something unfreeze a little in Spike, saw from the corner of her eye the way he turned away from the rail just a tad to angle his body a little back in their direction. 

She breathed a sigh of relief.

Xander nodded. “Yeah, I… guess that makes sense. And with Ahn… she had her soul. I mean, I got that she had it when she was out vengeancing, and on some level I got that people do horrible crap like that with souls all the time, but I thought…” He shrugged and looked down. “I just couldn’t get past it. I couldn’t even trust _me_ , so why… Why could you trust him, how could he trust himself?”

“I thought I knew me, Harris, was the thing of it,” Spike answered, returning, and grabbed up Buffy’s tumbler to slug back the rest of the scotch.

Buffy stilled his hand when it descended, turned her gaze firmly on Xander’s, flickered it briefly to Willow’s. “I thought I knew _me_ , too, but I raped Spike I don’t know how many times, soul or no soul, so probably we should all drop that part of the measuring contest.”

Gauntlet thrown. They gaped at her. She stared back stonily, refusing to drop her gaze. 

The moment was broken when Spike groaned. “Bloody hell, Buffy.”

“I’m just saying. And only one of us stopped, or said they were sorry.”

“Buffy, please.” The pain in his voice halted her when nothing else would. She snapped her mouth shut, but maintained her glare on her friends. They wanted raw, they were going to get raw.

Pushing herself to her feet, Buffy nodded at them. “The past is the past. For all of us, okay? We’ve all fucked up, in every possible way. We’ve all raped, murdered, tortured, abused, got addicted, whatever. There’s no good or evil here. None of us are innocent. We’re all guilty, and it’s about time we started acting like it. But we’re also all victims; because guess what? Child soldiers on a hellmouth, and a guy who got raised by freaking Angelus, of all assholes. So let’s just leave it and stick with the starting over thing, because I’d rather be grown up friends who survived and are trying to be healthy adults than go backward.”

White-lipped, Xander nodded once and reached out, fumbling. Caught up his beer one-handed and clutched it like it was a lifeline. Willow just looked pensive. 

Buffy had her hand on Spike’s arm. It was like steel. “I think I’m really not drunk enough anymore. I’m going to go find that waiter guy and have more of something very mixed. We had plans tonight, and I really don’t wanna change ‘em. C’mon, Spike.” Tugging him toward the stairs, she called over her shoulder, “We’ll see you later. We’re gonna let you find your own way back, though, okay?” She really didn’t feel like a party right now.

The music washed back over her as she dragged her vampire back down into the thick of the beat.

The thing was to get doggedly toasted, she decided. Faith definitely had the right idea. Booze, sex, no thinking. /And to think I used to worry about her./ Still… Scanning the floor briefly as she ordered and downed her… something lemony and loaded with vodka, Buffy frowned at the severe lack of Slayer-sister in her line of sight. “She knows the address, right? For later?”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, pet. She’s a big girl.” Spike’s impatience was not put on. He wanted to be gone; away from the club, away from Xander, alone with her. Back in their quiet bubble where he could pretend none of the feelings that had been brought up by that poorly-timed confession could damage what lay between them, whether they could regain their previous vibe or no.

Buffy honestly couldn’t blame him at all. “Yeah. She is. And so am I.” And she tossed back the rest of her vodka thing and stepped back into her vampire’s arms. “Let’s dance.”

Three drinks later, she wasn’t entirely sure how she got outside the club, really. She had no particular memory of the journey, save that Spike had her arm. And then they were in a cab, and everything was fine. And everything would _be_ fine.

/Everything always is, anymore, when it’s just us./

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The next chapter is... *looks ahead* 100% unadulterated smut, with no further interruptions, if that makes anyone feel better.   
  
(Quote by Brene Brown)

edit: One of our wonderful readers/commenters reminds me that I completely forgot to credit the song I quoted, because my brain got too hung up in things like translations. Maybe I also thought it was way too obvious or something, I don’t know...but this was "Closer” by Nine Inch Nails (which I tend to think would be a song that Buffy would identify with a lot back in season six, by the way).  
  
  
Mi Viejo! = My attempt at rendering "My Old One!" as a swear. Not sure it worked.   
  
Salud = Cheers

Perdon, perdon = pardon, pardon   
  
Por favor, debo pedirles a todos que se muevan. Estos asientos están reservados. = Please, I must ask you to move, these seats are reserved.  
  
Los sentimos! = we're sorry   
  
Gratis = Free  
  
¡Ah, tienes un hombre sexy ahí. = Oh, you have a sexy man, there.  
  
Soy celosa! = I'm jealous!  
  
Mantén la boca cerrada sobre mi reina, capullo. = Keep your mouth shut about my queen, prick.

Oye! Te moveras? = Hey! Will you move?


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, I FINALLY got on replying to all of you (tough gig while writing the nine or whatever WIPs i have going... me with all the stories tugging at my sleeve like urchins, lol). Anyhoo... As promised, big glass of smut to wash down all that tense confessional anxiety we got walloped with at the end of last chapter.
> 
> Oh, almost forgot to warn, there's anal sex in this one, somewhere along about halfway through the scene. You should be able to tell it's coming if it's not your jam.

**S:  
  
** Spike was having a tough time reining himself back to the present. He was still feeling a bit grumbly. He most definitely wasn’t paying the appropriate court to Buffy, it seemed, had missed not a few cues throughout the beginnings of the cab ride. Hence, he looked up in inordinate surprise when his thoroughly smashed goddess slid clumsily astride his lap, knelt to gaze intently, if slightly mazily, into his eyes. “Are you here with me?” she asked him, with adorable intensity.

The scent of arousal flooded the cab. Of _Buffy’s_ arousal, driven by the relentless engine of tonight’s slay, of their earlier shag, of her want for him, and… /Time to pay sodding attention, Spike, you nit./ For one, he could feel on the bond between them the way the world was whirling for her; as if she was seeking a steady spot within the maelstrom; one certain thing, and that was him. For another, she very clearly had long gotten past what that git Harris had been on about, and was back on her previous single-minded pursuit of his special talents. He’d be a right nutter if he didn’t either oblige, or give her a right good reason he wasn’t in the mood, considering that getting to be the lucky bastard as got to see to her was his honor. 

And he was, still. Feeling her, he could easily fall back to where he had been, before, with her. He had only to put the other out of mind, and to let her know he had. Because she needed to know for sure where he stood on the matter before she proceeded with any one damned thing. Needed to know this, concretely, if she knew no other thing; that all was right between them. 

And the question. Christ, what a question. 

It brought everything to a halt. His remaining dregs of irritation, of frustration with Harris, his old anger at self and others; all of it. Because Buffy was still on a tear, if too purposely too drunk to recall anything else. As clearly, she was riding on the slaying high, badly wanted him still; badly wanted them to go back to where they had been before everything had been derailed. But it was just as clear that she wouldn’t take him if he couldn’t be there with her. Never again. Not even with the excuse that she wasn’t in her right mind, and needed to forget.

Especially when.

/Oh, Love./ Her reads weren’t as off as she was obviously concerned they were. /I want what you want, pet. I’ll gladly lose myself in you. After all we’ve built, I can look away from the past, give myself permission, long as it’s what you want./ He could understand her uncertainty, though. She was, after all, quite comprehensively sozzled, might not be feeling him as well as she normally might. And for that, he bloody well appreciated her forbearance. 

Lifting his eyes to hers, he let whatever remained of his dark mood flake away before her eyes to reveal the open, youthful smile he knew delighted her. Decorated the edges just a bit with design, so she’d know he had caught her drift, and lifted his hand to brush her cheek. “Oh, Love. I am wherever you want me to be. Yeah,” he finished, and caressed her glorious hair away; the faintest pressure, with just his fingertips, feeling reverent as ever as he fell into the forest garden of eyes verdant with emerald and gold. “I’m here with you.”

God love her, she took him at his word, and no further need for discussion. “Okay.” Bending down, she nudged his mouth with hers, breathing Glenfiddich and the intoxication that was Buffy into him. It was not quite a kiss; mostly a questing acceptance; then she pulled back, was eyeing him in a querying sort of way, as if assessing his fitness. “Are you drunk at all, too? Will you sing to me?”

Spike found himself understandably startled. “A bit, though not nearly so much as you. And I’m not sure what that has to do with anything. I’ve sung to you loads of times, pet.”

To his delight, a slow blush percolated to her cheeks, and the perfume of her arousal intensified; a filtering-in along with the heating of her blood to mix with the heady aromas of Slayer and alcohol. All of that and the almost nonexistent sense of her as a predator right now, and it was all very disarming. /Oh, my love, what are you thinking?/

“No. while you…” She cut off swiftly as she’d begun. The gorgeous flush intensified, her eyes telling the story as the link between them thrummed with a quick pulse of echoed sensation; and oh Christ, she was imagining him shagging her blind while he warbled some shite to her, wasn’t she? Or, less imagining so much as feeling it already, because she was pissed as hell while her veins were afire with the slay she’d just had, and that shallow fucking he’d given her against the railing of that sodding club had barely whetted her appetite. And then there had been strain, and uncomfortable revelations best put behind them, which had resolved itself to a terrible need for a very physical reconnection to heal the breach his brief withdrawal and her shock had caused them. Put it all together, and she wanted him deep and hard; but she was also feeling a bit sentimental in her cups. More than that, she could practically feel him already, and was it any wonder that this woman could drive him to breathing? 

/Oh, bloody hell. How could I do anything less than delight in you, Buffy?/ “You have a high estimation of my abilities, my love, if you think I can stay on key, much less keep a tempo, while I’m shaggin’ that hot, tight quim of yours…”

To his unutterable glee, she squeezed her thighs together a little, or at least attempted to do so, though it was a colossal failure as she was straddling him in that moment. The crotch of his jeans acquired a warm, wet patch, to which his well-trained cock responded by struggling to tear painfully through his sodding trousers to reach her; and bloody fuck, he would do that and more if she asked, if it turned her on so bleeding much. Fuck!

His Slayer was currently breathing hard into his neck, lost in apparent fantasy. Made some sort of noise there, what sounded like, “Nnnggg…”

Biting his lip a bit, he slithered his hand between them to adjust himself as much as he was able. He unintentionally brushed her with a knuckle as he did so, and felt her respond with a jolt, grinding hard against the back of his hand. /Oh hell./ This cabbie was no doubt used to a bit of a show, what with late-night fares from the clubs and the like, but did they want to make it out of here without ending up in a sodding Spanish drunk-tank, he needed to slow her a bit. Not that he minded for himself, per se, but he would much prefer to shag his Slayer tonight than know he’d participated in getting her arrested and locked away from him. /Patience and all that rot./ So he slid his hand firmly around instead to cup her bum, pulled her hard up against the needy bulge in his jeans. Felt her grind against him, hot and wanting him, pulled her in sharp to hold her still, trapped against him. She whimpered against his neck in response, which was just lovely.

The sound went directly to his prick.

“Sing to me,” she whispered into his ear, still fighting to have herself off against him. “And make me cum…”

/Bloody fuck, woman, you could get me to promise you the bleedin’ moon on a string, sounding and smelling like this for me./ Fuck, she was gonna bring him off, just talking, any moment. Buffy was never this fucking open about what she wanted, even now. She always seemed to have this odd veneer of schoolgirl put by, and would vacillate in the oddest way, sometimes, between self-assured woman, frankly stating her needs, and the verbiage of shy chit afraid of using quite out loud the earthy phrasis required to see those needs fulfilled. It was an oddly intoxicating combination, for though time and hard use in the last few years had mostly worn away the few remaining strands of prudery and prim-and-proper former cheerleader, still occasionally they would resurface to delight him. He was grateful to see that she still had the energy to be a little less than utterly jaded; that on occasion she had the strength to look at him, frown, and shake her head, and tell him, ‘Alright, dammit; you know I’m not gonna say that, Spike.’

At least these days she no longer said shit like, ‘Your… you know’. He’d long since gotten her past rubbish like that. Hell. She’d long since gotten to the point where she’d gotten off to him doing no more than talking his best game to her, without even touching her; talking until she stared daggers at him in frustration, forced to bring herself off while he watched. 

But that was then. This was now, and he was enjoying the novelty of this blunt Buffy who knew exactly how she wanted him, and where, and when, and had no problem letting him know it, would brook no alternatives. “Sing for me, and…" Pulling away to regard him with solemn certitude, she bit her lip fetchingly. "Sometimes when you sing, I swear I could just…” 

Her breath hitched, and she buried her face against him once more, breathing unsteadily.

Oh, yes; he should get her in her cups more often. “Bloody hell,” he gave in, “I’ll grind out a few bars.” He nudged her away from him once more with his chin, loosed a hand to catch her face in his palm. Gazed on her in rapture. “Christ, look at you.”

Wide-eyed and positively sloshed, she was a sight. He could eat her. “You could probably ask me anything right now,” she confessed brightly, “and I’d spill my guts.” An alarmed expression promptly shot across her features, trailed swiftly by confusion. “Actually, don’t. I didn’t say that…”

/ _Well_ now./ Spike’s grin broadened. /Time to get into the truly meaty questions./ “Who’s better in bed, luv; me or Mr. Gordo?”

That did it. He’d caught her broadside for sure. She burst into startled giggles and collapsed against his chest, and he could not but chuckle, stroking her hair as she remained dissolved against him for the remainder of the drive, snorting with mirth till she was a hiccupping disaster; till he could feel her diaphragm aching through their link. She was still wheezing off and on as they circled through the southern bit of Almerimar toward their stop, though she managed to sputter out a few words. “Well… you’re both room… temperature… God. And you’re both good listeners. He was… fuzzier… But you’re prettier. And you come with… hee! …benefits… so…”

“Right then.” One must be satisfied with such results, especially when one’s rival lived on in glorious, unadulterated memory. “Edged out the pig by an inch or two…”

That sent her back into gasping gales again. “Several… inches… ha!”

Feeling indulgent, Spike shifted her off his lap. /Oh, my beautiful Slayer, you’re like to pass out before there’s any more sex to be had, aren’t you?/ “Walked right into that one, I s’pose.” Leaning forward, he tapped the driver on the shoulder and held out a few euros. _“Aqui esta bien.”*_

_“Bien, bien.”_ The car pulled to a stop. 

Buffy frowned at the empty night outside the window. “Pooh. It’s so far to the house.”

“You want me to carry you, pet?”

She blew air out between her lips in a lazy raspberry. “I could carry _you_ , and you know it. Drunk or sober.” 

“Too right you could. I’ll get pissed next time so you can give it a go if you want.” Cracking open the door, Spike nodded at the driver. _Gracias. Buenas noches.”*_

_“Y ustedes.”*_

Hefting her out of the car, he got her to her feet. To her credit, she only staggered a little before remaining more or less upright and shoving aside his hovering hand with a haughty air. “I could kill everything around us right now and not even miss,” she told him imperiously, chin held high. “You only get to pick me up if you’re doing that sexy vamp thing where you’re going to shove me up against the side of a building and…” Frowning, she spun a little, tottering as she did so, and exhaled in almost comical frustration. “We’re out of walls.”

They had come a long way from a past when Buffy acting this way might recall bad old times. Now it was just amusing, and mildly nostalgic, and left behind zero sting. “Got a bit of a one-track mind right now, luv,” he informed her, smirking. 

“I want your cock in me,” she announced bluntly, and turning once more, struck out determinedly toward the low abutment between road and sands. Navigating it with studious concentration so as not to go arse over teakettle, she passed over it onto the beach with a small crowing sound of triumph.

Left behind, Spike closed his eyes briefly and pressed the heel of his hand against said cock through his jeans, inhaled, closed his eyes. He could hear her ahead of him, as she began the short slog over the sands, having missed the harder path by about seven feet. “But, at home,” she was muttering with grim determination, “because sex on the beach, not nearly as much fun as people say. I think. I hear it’s pretty painful, actually, with all the sand in places…” 

He opened his eyes to watch her through the spreading dark as she trailed off to pick her way, sans streetlights and with faint, adorable little grunts of effort, through the rough going of the beach with its soft give. All of her concentration had gone now to stop her from wobbling about or canting over to one side, but she still had enough to spare to note, after a moment or two, that he had fallen behind. _“C’mon,_ Spike.”

She was making damned good time for chit who was tight as a boiled owl. “Bloody hell, woman, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispered, and followed. Though, that was redundant, since in a way she already had been. No doubt they’d worn that one out, and he was safe following the sun to his doom once more; though, either way, it wasn’t as if knowing the outcome would change his behavior in the slightest. He was a moth to the only star in the darkness. /You’re my sun. The only sun I’ve seen since I was reborn, and I will chase your light, your warmth, till the day I dust./

Pursuing her in the night, he caught her up round the waist, chuckling at her response; half-ire and half abrupt, sensual surrender. Swung her about, plopped her down on the path to her right. “You’ll get on better this way, Love, I promise you.”

Catching his head as her feet touched ground, she dragged him down and captured his tongue with hers in a messy, hot kiss filled with promise and tasting of Glenfiddich. “I accept all forms of chivalry which end with you fucking me hard for at least three hours,” she informed him frankly, and extricated herself to set off again, leaving him to contemplate her resolute gait with awe. 

Some would say he was whipped, that he was still, at least in moments such as these, letting himself be used. He would say who the bloody fuck would blame him in the goddamned slightest? 

Rolling his tongue in anticipation, he stalked after his randy Slayer, who didn’t seem at all prepared, at this point, to curl up for a nap, and who actually seemed quite determined to ride his cock for the remainder of the evening. /Thank bloody Christ for that demon-gifted constitution, yeah?/ 

Buffy made it all the way to their house under her own steam, which was impressive in its own right. Marched under the awning, dodged the scarlet-and-black workout bag with a frustrated, off-center pummeling as if it had attacked her and was being offensive, staggered around it into the house. Steadying the bag as he trailed her, Spike grinned and followed her into the dark. She wasn’t even bothering to flip on any lights, had instead headed directly into the bedroom. /Single-minded bird./

He saw one light go on as he passed that idiot beaded curtain of Dawn’s and slipped into the hall. The bedside lamp, then; the one he used sometimes when struck with inspiration and wanted to write something, or read in bed. She wanted him by lamplight, then; wanted to study him, trace his body with her fingertips while he had her. /Fuck, I love you, pet. I love how we are, now. Even when we’re like this, never how we were. Christ, Love…/ 

As he sidled in she was already stripping off her faux-leather skirt to stand, naked as a jay, before him, at least from the waist down. Turned to him, frustrated, with her arms canted up behind her. “This thing is stupid,” she informed him, irritation filling her voice, and tugged at the now mostly-dry scrap of red cloth she called a top. 

“I’ve got you, pet,” he told her, still delighted, and closed with her to untie the bitty thing and fold it carelessly in his right fist. /Not that I couldn’t see to you and that rag of a thing still on you, but you smooth and perfect under me and nothing between us is the finest thing./ He cast the top away to trail the backs of his fingers up along her unclothed sides, reveling in the curves now present in her cosseted form; in the changes made to her body after nearly nine months of being loved and fed properly and having had a bloody chance to breathe without chits and Scoobies pulling at her and crises dragging her down. Splayed his hand over the one faint scar across her ribs on the left side, the one whose story he’d never learned. /Need to ask, sometime./ Brushed his thumb over the one on her belly from when he hadn’t been there to keep her, and she’d come to him after, asked him how to keep herself. How to stay with them all. Traced over the glowing tan she had acquired here, despite the winter, under the Spanish sun, that bespoke time and space, to be just Buffy, and not…

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she informed him pointedly, and when he lifted his eyes, pouted. “It’s not fair. I wanna look at you, too.”

Different. So different than before, when she would simply have torn his togs away, because then it would have been all about wanting his body accessible, to be used as she saw fit, and him not performing quickly enough to satisfy her. Now, she could admit she wanted him for her eyes as well, and to fill her hands with him. To keep him and to know him; gratification for more than just her body, but her heart and her soul as well. To use him, but with love in her eyes, and to want him to do the same. And this could be beautiful, now; her drunk and slipped of her controls, and giving it all to him without the slightest restraint. Nothing but trust between them, in the full knowledge that they would give one another only pleasure.

/And no pain./

/Christ./ “Sorry, pet. Got distracted. ‘S just… you’re so bloody gorgeous. It buggers up my thinking.”

“No thinking.” She stretched up a bit, seeking with her mouth. “Kiss me. And get naked. Want you so bad.” Her strong fingers, digging carelessly into his body, dragging him close into the barest of hungry, fleeting kisses. “Need you, Spike,” she whispered, breaking free. “God, I need you.” Pumped him hard against herself. “Need to feel you…” Her wanting was a thrumming thing between them, on their link, and holy fuck, he could drown in her. “Been so long since we’ve been in a fight like that, and the last time…”

/Oh. Right./ The last time, she’d had him, but she didn’t particularly recall it, being as she’d been a bit of feral-Slayer in the moment. The time before that, he’d been shot, and she’d had to give of herself to save him guttering out from severe blood loss. And before that… Hell-A, and him nearly losing her against Illyria, and all the rest. Him getting himself dusted in front of her, twice, like a git. /And before that, she _did_ lose me./ “I’m here, Buffy,” he whispered back, low and reassuring. “Never leave you again.”

“Show me,” she whispered, mouth dragging at his throat, under his jaw, seeking his lips.

He gave of himself to her, caught her mouth with his like a bark wrecking upon the shoals of fate, crashed his arms around her. And she was dragging at his shoulders, pushing his duster fiercely away from her flesh. He moved his arms about obligingly, let it fall with a slithering _whumph._ And then she was scrabbling at his shirt, fighting not to tear it; understandable, because they only had so much of a wardrobe here, and he knew she liked this one on him. 

Tearing his mouth away from hers was a bit of a struggle. He wanted to stay, give her what she needed, as always. And she tasted of wanting him in every way; inside of her, forever. Of desperate hunger and loving, and a little of incipient tears. Of driving, pulsing, primitive lust, and of a deep, abiding yearning, and…

And perhaps he’d been a fool to choose a button-down. He managed three of the sodding stupid things, then tore the whole idiot garment right the hell over his head for her, and her assisting mazily with his cuffs; and then it was away and she was digging into his pecs with her fingertips, tongue out and _tasting_ him like to consume him where he stood, oh fuck…

“Please take off your pants. Want you…”

He obliged as swiftly as he was able, kicked out of his boots with the speed of the well-trained courser. She was already shuffling them over to the bed as he limped to follow, her fingers like talons in his ribs as she shoved his necklace impatiently aside, laved his nipples, his neck with her teeth and tongue; so ready, holy god…

Somehow they were down, and he had a contact high, was as lost as she, looking down at her. “Do you want me like this, Love, or…” Considering her mood, she might want to ride herself to heaven on him for the remainder of the night, and he’d count himself lucky for it. 

Apparently not, though. “Get. In. Me,” she insisted, eyes blazing up into his, and swarmed her legs up around approximately his waist, her nails digging into his arse, dragging up to his shoulder-blades. 

/Bloody fuck./ Taking himself in hand, he didn’t wait. Buffy got what she wanted. If this was what she wanted… /Oh Christ…/ Fuck, she was wet.

She bucked under him, legs seizing like a vice to draw him in. “Hard, Spike. And sing.”

“Oh, Jesus.” His mind was a sodding blank as her blazing heat enveloped him.

Hand no longer needed, he caught her up under one knee, got one leg over his shoulder…

“Oh God, oh yes, please, oh… God… _yes!_ Oh _fuck!”_

He had to hold himself back, lower his forehead briefly to hers and breathe through his nose… because she was already gone; already, just from this. And as she came she was pulling him deeper; Christ, locking her legs round his ribs so that he was already bottoming out on her, bloody fuck, he was going to lose himself in her response; she was going to cum on him probably two, three times in quick succession, the way she was tonight, lost in sensation, and him the vessel of her need. Not that he minded in the slightest. 

“ _Please_ …”

Somehow he found some remnant of a recollection; some wispy musical murmuring from the back of his addled skull, drew it forth as his necklace bobbed on his chest and her tits bobbed on hers. _“‘I met you in nomansland…’”_ Thrust. Christ, she was tight after she came. _“‘_ … _Across the wire we were holding hands…’”_ And again, bloody fuck... _“‘Hearts a-bubble in the rubble…’”_ Her, open-mouthed with the feel of him. _“‘…It was love at a bomb site…’”_ Her eyes open now on his, green-gold and alight with awed wonder as she shuddered anew with each joining. And he forgot everything again. Feeling how he felt for her… “Christ, Buffy.” He drove into her hard, his knees scrabbling on the bed for purchase and leverage; until she threw her head back and clawed at the sheets and then the headboard, utterly lost in herself and in him. And came on him once more; hard enough his cock almost went numb for a moment. And bloody fuck, she was biting her own arm as she drove herself on him; not screaming as he’d expected but sobbing out breaths. 

He fought yet again for stability as her climax crashed all around and through him, because she’d need him like this at least once more, before she might come down enough for other ways. Not that he couldn’t bring her to completion again, as many times as she wanted, and fuck _yes_ , he wanted his mouth on her. But. 

Crisis past, she sagged back to the bed, panting… and to his surprise, loosed her legs from him. Flung one arm over toward her nightstand, fumbled with the drawer. 

Shifting a little to help her, he wondered if she’d want the collar. Fine by him if that was where she wanted to go with things tonight, though color him a bit surprised. She didn’t seem all that interested in taking charge at the moment so much as simply losing herself. “Want to play a bit, is it, Love?” he asked hoarsely.

She shook her head emphatically, rummaged a little inside the open aperture. “Looking for the lube.”

He hadn’t had hot blood in two days, but Christ if he didn’t go warm from head to toe for a moment. “Yeah?”

_“Mmmm…_ Yeah.”

/Well. Alright, then./ “For you or for me, is it?”

“Me.”

There were times when William the Bloody, Master vampire for a hundred years, still badly needed to remember how to breathe. “I fucking love you, woman.”

“I know. I want you wrapped all around me, loving me. Aha!” With a crow of triumph she held up the bottle, unceremoniously plopped into his open hand, and gave him a shove in the chest. 

“‘Mind me to give you good scotch more often, Buffy,” he answered hopefully as he backed carefully out of her. 

“Drunk Buffy,” she informed him primly, and made a regretful face as she lost him, “will make an appearance maybe…” She held up a couple of fingers, squinted doubtfully at them. “I’m thinking twice a year. Once for shits and giggles and general stress relief, and once after whatever apocalypse.”

“Deal. Do I get to roger you in the most debauched way I can possibly imagine each time? ‘Cause six months at a go gives me plenty of time to pluck up my imagination.”

Rolling her eyes, she caught his damp cock and gave it a peremptory tug, then turned over on her side and scooted back against his waiting thigh. “I’ll think about it. Tomorrow. Right now, this.”

/Sounds about right, to my mind./ 

She gave a little sigh when he crowded up close against her and she felt his thigh press to her bum, reached back to cup his arse and gave it a little slap. “Come here.”

She had lost track of the whole ‘making requests’ portion of things, had long since inadvertently engaged the bond, but as he had absolutely no objection… 

Lying down behind her, he set aside the small bottle to cradle her for a moment; to work her nipples, nibble at and lave her neck till her hips were rocking back against him and she was making those needy little sounds that said she wanted whatever he might give her. And fuck, but she was pliable tonight. Seldom was she so, though she had been more so in the past year-and-change together than she had ever been in all their time. “Love you so bloody much, Slayer,” he told her, reverently, and slipped two fingers down to play with her clit.

She let out a shuddering moan, sucked on the fingers of his other hand, and he had to close his eyes for a moment and breathe some more, because sometimes just the sounds she made had him damned near on the verge, like fucking stripling. “Not sure how long I’m gonna manage this, pet.”

“Please,” she whispered. “Just start. I’ll let you finish however…” She trailed off, jerking against his busy hand, and oh fuck, oh fuck. 

Pulling away from her clit, he fumbled for the bitty bottle. Slicked himself without much attention, doing his best to ignore the sensations of it, then found her bung and pressed a lubed thumb there. Pressed his mouth as he did so, open in a little sucking kiss, to the back of her neck. She arched back against him, let out a little breath, and relaxed to let him in. Christ, she was easy for him tonight. Usually this took a bit longer for her, but not now. She was letting go in moments, and… 

“That’s enough,” she whispered. “I want you.”

Surprised, he shook his head in automatic denial. “Not yet, pet, let me…”

_“Now.”_

Bloody hell, did she want it to hurt a bit, or was she really that certain of his welcome, that she… “You sure, Buffy?” he asked, even as he was already moving. When his bonded mate made demands, he was honor-bound to obey. 

Again, not that he at all minded. It was just, on principle and that…

Sliding her knee further up along the bedclothes, she tugged at his thigh. “Want you all around me,” she repeated, her voice throbbing with it. 

/Oh, bleedin’ Christ, Love…/ She so badly wanted simply to take her pleasure on his body tonight, to just have herself off on him and be driven beyond thought, and fuck if that wasn’t beautiful in its own way. Especially knowing… he could _feel_ her now, what he brought to her. 

Catching himself up again, and his lip in his teeth, he resolved to go slow… and began. And was stunned when, upon feeling him setting to, she pushed back hard, gave a bit of a grunt of effort, and took him on with only the faintest wince. And holy bloody fuck, she was tight, and he was going to… /Oh JesusfuckingChrist…/ “I… might need a mo’, pet,” he managed, hoarsely.

She shivered deliciously against him, and he swore he could feel the chills in her, dancing between them, up and down her body in a wash of hot and cold. “Mmmm… take your time…”

He managed to get back control of himself after a moment’s concerted heavy breathing and a stern talking-to. “Right, then.”

“All better?” she asked him and the pillow, sounding amused.

“Hush, you. Givin’ me special treats an’ that, an’ expectin’ me to perform like usual…” Rolling closer to her, he wrapped her up tight as she’d asked, kissed the back of her neck. “Ready?”

“Give me all of you. That’ll be my special treat.”

/Bloody hell./ 

Burying his face in her neck, he flexed his hips, drove slowly the rest of the way in, heard her gasp, felt her wriggle on him as she settled in for the duration. She exhaled long and low as he seated himself, gave another little shudder as if setting herself to her work, then murmured, _“God,_ that’s good. How the hell is that so good when I don’t have a whatdoyoucallit?” She freed one hand to wave it about at nothing in particular, sounding a bit dreamy. 

Lost in the smell of her hair and her satisfied lust, he couldn’t but chuckle. “I’ve a prostate and the nerve for it. You’ve the same nerve, but you’ve also got something I don’t. Your vagus nerve goes all the way to your pelvic floor. Mine stops a ways shy. Lucky bitch. You probably feel this all the way in your bloody throat.”

“Mmm. That.” Her head turned a little, and she frowned slightly. “You don’t? That hardly seems fair.”

“Different equipment, different outcomes. I’m not complaining.” He flexed a bit, and her breath caught. He thought he felt the shimmer in her; full-bodied and lovely. “Not complaining in the slightest.” /Christ, that’s nice./

“How… oh God… How do you know so much about…” 

He slipped his free hand away from her mouth to find a nipple, toyed with it, then down to work her clit, and began to thrust, long and slow and deep, and she cut off abruptly.. /So christing tight, fuck./ As a general rule, the strength and power of her during sex, her orgasms, all of it, should hold him back, act like a cock ring or something like… but between the fact he was used to strong even before her—hullo, _vampire!_ —and the fact he was since well-trained to get off because of it… Suffice it to say, he was no longer aided all that much in his endeavors to hold off when she strangled him like this. Sodding exciting was what it was. 

Aside from that, the fact remained that if shagging Buffy did act on him like a cock ring, he’d never get off. No doubt his body had learned how to get round that business merely out of self-defense. Instead, Christ, it was difficult not to go off just feeling her spasm in reaction to his presence, much less to get on and keep his attention on her needs. 

Fuck, they had scarcely started. He needed to keep control of himself, dammit! 

He did bite into her shoulder, though; just lightly, his fangs getting away from him a little. Tasted her sweet Slayer blood, felt her moan. “Spike… Oh God…”

Fuck, he wasn’t going to last long, but if he focused on trying to keep her talking, and the game of seeing how much he could make her lose her train of thought, he might manage for, oh, maybe a minute longer. He prayed that would be enough to bring her off. Might be, if he kept on like this, and her caught between fangs and hand and cock. Maybe if he switched up hands, got round enough to get inside her with one… “What was that, Love?” he asked, loosing his bite a bit to inquire.

“Huh?”

“How do…” /Fuck./ She was pushing back against him now, and he’d managed to get round her thigh and get a couple fingers inside her, just a bit, was fingering her g-spot at least. With that and working her clit she was setting off fireworks he could _feel_ , and he swore he could feel her pelvic floor going off already, fuck… /Speaking of./ “How do I… know what?” 

“About… Oh God… Nerves. You’re supposed… _Ohgodplease!”_

He could wait. He could! He just had to focus on her. On his hands, and… And on keeping his own rhythm without losing everything. “Supposed to…?” he managed a bit breathlessly.

“Supposed… nnnn… To know about… veins and… stuff, not…” Her hand was clamping around his wrist now so that she might shove his fingers harder inside her cunny, and he was at a bloody awkward angle, but he could not but oblige when she was making that _sound_ , like she was drowning for want of air, and fuckit. He had her flat on her face now, grinding her clit down onto his hand, and was fucking her hard, had lost himself, and she was pushing up against him, pressing down again onto his fingers, and he had never seen or felt her so abandoned. “God, fuck me, please, yes, God, Spike!” every word punctuated by his thrusts, taking her pleasure against his hand and his own abandon, and there was nothing of the past in this. This was all now, all them, but he couldn’t…

/Please cum, Buffy, I can’t…/ His balls were tightening, he was all over chills, he wasn’t…

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered, and jerked hard against him. And shook. And shook. And went still, strangling his cock like a vise, the rushing, full-body power of her orgasm flooding through him. 

/Thank Christ/ he thought, and spilled himself to her in turn. Lost. 

At some hazy point later he lifted away to disengage himself, traced her golden spine in the lamplight, brushed aside a little of her gorgeous tumble of hair. “You out, then, pet?” She hadn’t moved or made a sound since she’d come.

“Mmmm.”

Well, she’d managed a sight more than he’d reckoned she would in the cab ride over. Give credit where it was due; he had thought she would cash in her chips just from the walk to the house. /First big slay in a while had you riding high, Love, innit?/ He kissed her neck. “Mind if I eat your cunny a bit till you fall asleep?”

“Mmmm? Mmmmm…” Rolling over onto her back, she smiled lazily, and her eyes blinked open just a hair, to let him see a slice of fuzzy, verdant Summers iris. One hand rose, drifted to cup his head. “Get me some water and you can have your way with me for the rest of the night.” 

She sounded slow, logy, but a bit less drunk than before… and a sight less edgy. Well enough. “Done.” Lifting up, he kissed her at the point of her shoulder. “Be right back, Love.”

He expected her to be unconscious by the time he returned, but instead he heard her rummaging about, knew she’d woken up enough to decide it was time to go use the bog. When he made it back she was ensconced where he’d left her, awaiting her water delivery. She took it, had a sip or two, then smiled serenely and, setting the glass aside, lay back and closed her eyes. Spread her hands. “I accept snuggles or cunnilingus, depending on your preference.”

“Give a bloke a difficult bloody choice, considerin’.” With a sigh, he surveyed her body, all spread out loose and lovely. “Do I still get the snuggles, after, if I pick option B?”

“I make no promises I’ll be awake, but you can feel free to use me as your mostly-human teddy bear till you decide to go prowling around…” Her voice trailed off sleepily. “The idea of falling out with your mouth on me sounds…” She exhaled slowly, smiled a little contented sort of smile. “Mmmm…”

/And we are decided./ 

Sliding down her body, he gave a kiss to the faint scar on her belly in passing, spread her legs. And drew in a long, deep inhale of the glorious scent of her, laced with him and sex and a bit of lube and just… Bloody hell. This was his heaven. He never thought in his life he could ever be so happy as this. To have his Slayer accepting all of him, holding him safe in blood and body, caring for his perversely loving demon’s heart and nancy human soul, and giving all of herself to him in turn; all her fierceness, all her fears, all her insecurities, all her fire and her flaws, all her rage, all her needs and her weaknesses and her strengths, and letting him stand at her side. 

Her hand, lazily sifting through his hair as he had her, steeped himself in her, was glory, was acceptance. And her voice, as she drifted slowly on the waves of what he brought her, was his salvation. “I love you, Spike,” and, “Thank you for loving me.”

He had to lift his head at that, to her faint noise of protest _. “Always.”_

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Aqui esta bien =_ Here is good/fine _  
  
_ _Bien, bien =_ good, good

_Gracias. Buenas noches =_ thank you, goodnight _  
  
_ _Y ustedes =_ and you (plural, formal) __  
  
The song Spike sort of sang: "Barbed Wire Love" by Stiff Little Fingers


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... here is where we get into some fun meta-theorying of mine about the biology of vamps and Slayers... and open up the door into a lot of neat future stuff for our fave couple.

_“The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.”_

* * *

**B:  
**  
Buffy woke sometime in the late morning to the feeling of Spike crawling into bed with her. Smiled at the rumpled, still-vaguely-sex-smelling sheets and him, freshly-showered and curly-haired and kohl-less, sprawled out on his belly in the dim aura of day and glowing with it as the light limned his ribs, the wings of his shoulder-blades, the bumps of his spine, the gorgeous curve of his ass. 

He was a little marked up. And gone were the days when she felt any regret about that, since he definitely didn’t seem to mind. 

He actually looked pretty damn good, all stamped as hers.

Tamping down the ferocious urge to bend over and take a nice bite out of that butt, like an apple, Buffy restrained herself like a damn grownup and turned instead to pat around on the nightstand for that glass of stale water from last night. Gulped it down, frowned a little at the ‘meh’ flavor of it. It was wet, which worked. Her tongue was mega-fuzzy, but she should be grateful considering she had so very much not brushed her teeth last night, and also, amazingly, she didn’t have much of a hangover. 

/Probably Spike’s fault./ Her vampire had liberally plied her with water throughout the evening, alternating H2O with alcohol glass for glass like a nurse. He had been uber-willing to go along with her single-minded quest to get utterly fucked up—for which she didn’t blame him, since the results had obviously been to everyone’s benefit both during and later on—but he had had a codicil. 

If there was one thing she could count on with her guy, it was that he had a thing about her being in pain. As in, whatever he pretended, he’d rather she not, when it was an avoidable thing. Sparring, of course, didn’t count, but… “I love you,” she whispered softly to the somnolent lump of vampire all starfished out on the bed next to her. 

Despite his standard ‘out like a light, wouldn’t hear an atomic bomb’ attitude, he heard _that_ , and shifted a little in his sleep. And a faint smile creased his lips; what she could see of them, since most of his face was all buried in his pillow. 

/You’d hear me say that to you if you were dusting, wouldn’t you?/ 

/ _Now_ , anyway./

Reaching out, she trailed her hand just above him, not-quite-touching, so as not to wake him. If she touched him he would come back to life, ask her if she needed him, in any way, ‘ready to serve’, as it were. /Always there for me./ But she didn’t want to disturb him now, wanted one of _those_ moments where she could but watch him sleep. 

He had tried this with her all of once, the first time around, before Riley had come back to wreck everything. She had felt him watching her while she almost let herself rest beside him, and tried to forget where she was, tried to let herself just be, beside him, for a moment. He had followed the rules, of course, hadn’t touched her while he’d lain beside her on the narrow sarcophagus lid. Hadn’t dared. But he _had_ taken as much as she had allowed, and traced her over and over with his eyes, hungry for anything she might give him; even that brief, not-quite-unguarded moment where she had just… not run immediately away. And then, of course, there had been _that night_ , before the Scythe, when everything between them had changed, and the seeds of now had been born between them.

So many times since Hell-A, she would catch him doing it again; would wake sometimes still to find him tracing the air above her form, eyes drinking her in; like he couldn’t believe she was there. She understood that need, now, for she did it to him too, these days. /After… losing you. After knowing what it’s like to have you, but not, and then to know I’d never have you again./ Those times, when he woke and caught her at his old game he would watch her with understanding eyes, as if amused that she would look on him so. Idiot. 

When he did it nowadays, she would catch his neck, bring him down to her mouth in the hard reassurance that she was indeed there, and not leaving. Never leaving. That this was real. 

When he caught her, he just smiled, and lifted his fingers to her cheek. Brushed her hair from her face, caught her hand to press her fingertips hard against the arches of his cheekbones till she could believe in him. ‘Solid, innit,’ he’d said to her once. ‘Not dust, anymore.’ And she had had to bite back tears, that he’d known what she was thinking.

“You better not go anywhere,” she whispered now, over his sleeping bod. “Damn you. I need you.”

He shifted again in response, his hand seeking. Brushed her thigh, caught. Squeezed a little. Reassuringly substantial and real and _with_ her.

Her heart couldn’t take it, sometimes, that she had someone like him, who would never leave. That he had somehow, magically come back after she had finally given in, said those three precious words to someone she had known was already leaving. That she got to say them again and again now to someone she would not run from. That she got to tell him she, too, would never leave the way everyone else had left him. /That I get to say them to someone who _stays_./

Because what it meant was that the only way either of them would ever go, now, was if something took them from one another. /We can’t control that. But _this?_ This, we can choose. And I finally learned to choose right./

Sometimes it was hard to know, when the smiles came along with tears, whether you were feeling pain or joy, they were so intermixed.

Shaking her head and feeling maudlin, Buffy slipped away till his hand dropped limply to the blankets. With a mutter he turned over and away from the covered window, grabbing at the sheet to drag it more or less over his waist as if saying, ‘Fine, then, if you’re gonna go I’ll just curl up by my lonesome. See if I care.’

Shaking her head, she rose to approach the recently-repaired wardrobe. Smiled as her body reminded her of just exactly why Spike was so tired right now. /Guess I wore you out./ Grabbing up some clothes, she tossed them at the foot of the bed and tugged on her robe. /Speaking of, shower-time for me./ Gathered up her stuff, and bent over to kiss her guy very softly on the back of the neck before she departed.

He exhaled her name, a soundless form without weight, as she left the room.

Feeling significantly more refreshed and approachable after a nice toilette, Buffy exited the bathroom a little later to enter the living room… and stopped dead with a faint frown. Faith had made it back at least as far as the couch, and was all slogged out there, about as sprawled out as Spike got after a long night. 

She looked like she’d had damn near as much fun, too. Her hair was kind of a mess, and so was what was left of her make-up. Her jacket was slung carelessly over the back of the sofa, and she had the cheap, plaid blanket sort of pulled up over her bare shoulder, though it wasn’t covering much else on her. She looked uncomfortable in the relatively bright room, even in her sleep. 

Buffy wondered how late she’d gotten in. 

With a heavy sigh, Buffy approached the couch to lean over her sister-Slayer. Reached out to give the nearest leather-clad leg a quick rub. “Faith.”

Faith was up like a shot, bleary-eyed but alert, tense with balled fists, and ready for war. “What? Who…”

“It’s okay. It’s just me.”

Relaxing slowly, Faith lowered her arms and stood down. Swung into a sitting position and blinked away the sleepies. “Damn, B, what time is it? I just got in at like six, and I’ve got a wicked bad hangover…”

“I figured.” Buffy nodded toward the hall. “You should head in there. It’s around nine. Spike just went to bed too, and probably Wil’s gonna be getting up soon. She’s kinda an early riser. People’ll be eating and whatever. You won’t get any sleep unless you do the vampire-hours thing.”

Faith was clearly floored by this proposition. “You want me to go hit the sheets in there next to your guy?” she demanded, stunned.

Buffy shrugged with an outward ease she didn’t entirely feel. “He’s out. You need to sleep it off. Simple math.” /This is me doing my damnedest to say we’re grownups now, bygones and yadda. Olive branches and doves and trust and crap. Take me up on it before I lose my nerve and decide we should fight instead./

Faith stared for a sec, then rubbed her hand over her face, suspicion fading into amazement. Shaking her head, she pushed herself to her feet, nodded once, started for the hall. And halted again to turn to Buffy, as if needing to make sure they were on the same page. “You don’t care?”

/‘Care’… is a strong word. Believe in Spike, though, yes. And mostly I’m starting to trust you, now, so…/ “Well… I haven’t had a chance to change the sheets, so fair warning; you should probably sleep on top of the blankets.”

Faith’s mouth twisted into a knowing grin as the innuendo put her on solid ground. Her choice, which type of squalor she wanted, and it wasn’t maybe as magnanimous as it sounded, which probably helped her. “Fair enough.” She headed down the hall. Except they both knew it was exactly so generous, and she halted once more outside the door. “I’m just surprised, you know?”

Buffy was going to lose her nerve and take it back if Faith kept stalling. “You’re not pissed off at me anymore, are you?”

Faith met her eyes dead-on. “Hell no.”

“Well, then.”

“Alright. Good point.”

Buffy waved her hand through the open doorway. “Get some sleep.”

Faith remained where she was for a second longer, then the mask slipped. She nodded tiredly; and yeah. She really looked like hell, with her hair hanging around her like a disaster, her makeup majorly the worse for wear, the strap of her top hanging half off of one shoulder, eyes all red. “Yeah. Damn right.” She pulled open the door, took in the room for a second, then made her way very carefully around toward the window side of the bed, eyes front and pointedly not perusing the vampire lying exposed to the waist on the dim side of said surface. 

Buffy didn’t survey the proceedings, just closed the door and turned around. /This is called being a damn adult, building adult relationships. Rebuilding, some of ‘em./ 

Fighting down all the old, niggling tremors, she turned firmly and headed back down the hall toward the kitchen. /Coffee first. Food of some kind…/ She passed the table, entered the hazy-bright bubble of the kitchen with its thin-curtained window… and halted, taken aback. The room was blooming with the scent of freshly-made coffee, and Willow was at the small table in the center of the space, writing something in some sort of journal. 

She looked up as Buffy entered and nodded over at the pot. “I guessed. It’s kind of different from the one at the castle.”

“Oh. Right.” Shuffling over to the pot, Buffy leaned over and gave a cautious sniff. It didn’t smell too weak or too strong. Safe enough, so she tugged her favorite cup down from the open cupboard above and filled up, went to the fridge for some cream. /Or milk, I guess. Note to self to buy some, or ask Tiny to bring more next time he makes flan or whatever./ Stirred in her requisite pound or so of sugar, pondered toast. “You’re up early.”

Wil shrugged. “Xander’s all elbows, and kind of an octopus. I’m so glad that thing with us never worked out. I mean, not that it would have, but he’d so spend his nights on the floor. I think I’m black and blue. Though I’m sure his hangover’s not helping.”

Buffy made a face as she stirred in sugar and milk to get her coffee to drinkable status. “In my experience, all men are starfish when they relax, and clingy when they’re in pain.” Tracing the familiar Almeria Futbol Club logo on her mug, she decided it wasn’t worth the effort to toast her bread, and approached the table with just the nice, crusty heel of the most recent loaf. It would do till she figured out how to feed herself. /I’m too hungry to wait./ “I mean, Spike sleeps kind of neatly if I kick him. Which, you know, means that he blames me, says I’m the violent one…” She sat and tore off a hank of bread, shoved the dry shred into her mouth without ceremony, sipped some coffee to soften it.

“Lucky you sleep different shifts.”

“Mmmhmm.” Swallowing to clear her throat, Buffy contemplated maybe a spreadable cheese. They should have some of that goat thing left, the _chevre_ thing, with the dill. Which might be kind of rank with coffee, but beggars couldn’t be choosers when certain vamps were still passed out and not around to make certain Slayers omelets or whatever. “He’s aces with the cuddles, though, till I pass out. I’m sure he wins at that.”

Wil looked amused. “Do you cuddle him?”

Buffy decided that tearing the bread with her fingers was the way to win this war. “I’ll have you know I can be an excellent big spoon. Which is a lot easier when you’re closer to the same size. It just looks silly when the guy’s huge, but with us…” She shrugged and popped more bread into her mouth. “It works.” Another swig of coffee and a swallow. “Not that it matters how it looks, and I’d snuggle him even if he was massively bigger than me, but still.” Making a face into her cup, she considered a little more water with her caffeine.

“You have a hangover? You can try my uber-witchy hangover-cure. It worked for me.”

Buffy lifted her head and shot her friend a suspicious look. “How bad does it taste? Because I’m mostly good. Slayer resilience and yadda. And, Spike shoved a ton of water down my throat all night.” /And I was getting high more on the sex than the alcohol till right there at the end. And then we burned off most of the alcohol with sex anyway./ “You might wanna save it for Xander.” /And yes, I notice that we are carefully walking around the subject of last night’s conversation with Xander in it, Wil, so stop eyeing me that way./

Wil glanced briefly away and shrugged. “Mostly it’s words, but yeah, there’s an herb or two you have to ingest, so if you’re mostly alright, probably…” She waved a hand, expression switching back to concern. “Are you just gonna eat bread?”

“My cooking skills haven’t gotten much better in the last year.” At Willow’s skeptical look, she shrugged. “In my defense, first I was in a hell dimension where we didn’t have stoves because no electricity, and then, you know, Spike kind of took over.” A vast yawn overtook her head, briefly whiting out her still-fuzzy thoughts. /Oh, yeah. Moar coffee needed./ “I’ve been focusing on expanding my mind, not my culinary repertoire.” /Which, if I told you how many books he’s had me read since you last saw me, you’d be floored, Wil, I promise you./ Heck; she might be able to hold her own in a conversation like the one from that one seminar, now, with the rapid-fire Q-and-A.

“I still can’t get over that he cooks.” Wil sounded amazed.

/Me either, but here we are./ “He might make us all some eggy quesadilla things or something later, or a quiche…”

“Wow.”

Buffy waved off another yawn and pushed herself to her feet, determined now to find something to leaven her bread feast. “Maybe I can blend something…”

“Won’t you wake up Faith? She’s on the couch. I saw her when I went to the bathroom.”

“Oh, I sent her to bed with Spike. She needed to crash.” Buffy opened the fridge to contemplate its contents.

“You… what?”

Turning at Wil’s incredulous tones, Buffy shrugged with what she hoped looked like nonchalance. Willow knew all about that past, had reason to be stunned at her blasé tones. “I trust Spike. Mostly trust Faith now. Anyway, she needs the rest. And if anything started to happen I’d feel it. Not that it will. So I’m not worried.”

Wil just stared at her for a long moment, like she’d grown a second head or something in the last five minutes. “Wow, you’ve changed so much.”

Distracted by the overlong study, Buffy gave up on her fruitless morning-food-survey and settled slowly back into her seat. “Yeah, I guess so. But it’s kinda been a dual effort.”

Wil eyed her for a little bit longer, then nodded and looked away. “It’s just weird, you know? You’ve always seemed so wigged by change. Like you’d do anything not to, in case it chased anyone off. And now all the sudden you’re like, Miss Embrace the New 2005, and it’s…”

Buffy looked away. “I already lost everyone and everything, Wil,” she announced softly. “I had to face my greatest fear. Everyone left me, but it was because I stayed the _same,_ kept trying to please everyone. It was exactly the opposite of what I was trying for. And it made me realize… I _have_ to change if I’m going to keep the one thing I need to survive.”

Wil fell back against her chair, kind of like Buffy had punched her in the chest. “Oh, Goddess, Buffy,” she whispered, and her voice cracked with pain. “I…”

/No. Not anymore. No more lying, no more pretending to make it easier on everyone. Not on myself, not on her, not on _any_ of you./ Lifting her eyes, Buffy pinned her ex-bestie with a firm gaze. “I had to change, to earn that back. To earn _him_ back, and to keep him. To keep my place in a world that is the only place where I actually fit. Where it doesn’t hurt, all the time, just to be _me_.”

“Buffy…”

Buffy held up her hand, forestalling the horrified, breathy and stunned protest. Wil had wanted to know, so okay. She was going to know. “A place where I don’t want to die every second, because it hurts so bad trying to pretend to be something I’m not.” Wrapping her fingers tight around her coffee mug, the warmth seeping through the cheap ceramic to bleed into her flesh, reminding her that she was alive, she was here in this place, that she wasn’t numb. /I’m still here. In this moment, in this now, with lessons to take in and impart./ So heavy, sometimes. But that wasn’t the only reason. /To love. To know… little pieces of heaven./

And she wouldn’t trade it. Even if it was hard. “But I have to _earn_ my place here, because I’ve spent years listening to people tell me how it works, and they were wrong about it. So I did a lot of damage; to him… and to them. It hurt them and it hurt me; almost past recovery. I have to fix it now if I’m gonna survive here.”

She was met with silence which stretched for so long that Buffy was sure that she had broken Willow. Finally, though, she was answered with a low whisper. “I was worried that you were just… selling yourself. For all of us. Like some kind of martyr, so the rest of the baby Slayers could be free, because maybe you felt guilty about Calling them all. But that’s not…” She leaned forward, back into Buffy’s scattered line of vision, expression taut. “Buffy, please tell me you aren’t… I mean, if that’s it, even a little, then you shouldn’t. You don’t need to feel guilty, you know? They’ll deal. I mean, it’s tough, sure, and we lose some, and maybe I don’t know about it except how it was for Kennedy. Maybe I’ll never really understand, but…”

Buffy shook her head to cut it off. The whole damn thing. “No, Wil. You never will understand. What I did to them. What I’ve forced them to take on without asking them. What they’ve been given without being offered any kind of choice.” It burst out of her on the razor-sharp edge of a pained laugh. “Just ask Faith. I mean, it was bad enough when there were two of us trying to coexist, and probably we could’ve wrangled it out between us, but it would’ve been this… this insane thing without brakes, just goading each other on with our darkness till we killed each other or drove each other over the edge, because we’re too much alike.” 

Buffy stared down into her cup, the swirl of darker coffee and flecks of stubborn milk refusing to melt down. “And maybe that’s how some of ‘em will figure it out, but some just won’t be able to roll that way, either because they’re too straight, or because the constant struggle for dominance is just too exhausting, and we’re all too alike. And for the rest…” She shook her head and lifted her cup to her lips, sipped still-very-hot coffee, looked hard over Wil’s shoulder; not to avoid her eyes, but to see into a past that had nearly destroyed her, and someone else into the bargain. “We all have the same demon in us, and now it’s awake; in all of them.” 

Bringing her inward-turned gaze back to the present, Buffy finally let her eyes catch her friend’s incredulous, gray gaze, pointed and sure. “Awake, and _lonely_ , Wil. It’s been kept lonely for, what? Ten thousand years? Longer? Chained to service without companionship, forced to kill its only possible mates. Just one demon essence, trapped in one lineage throughout time, caged by the Council. And when has it ever been able to love? When has it _been_ loved, been anything but a tool?” She shook her head once, briskly. Set aside the mug with grim agony, the feel of that one entity still writhing, aching and empty in her chest. /It was never just me, that desperate, tearing thing whenever we’re apart. That thing that felt that recognition, no matter how uneven, and leapt out to cling to Angel so hard that it skewed the power dynamic between him and the other part of me—the young girl—and then after that grabbed onto Spike like a lifeline. So frantic. So alone. So in need of a _mate_ after so long screaming, alone in the dark, with nothing but _duty_ for company./ “You have _no_ idea, Wil.” /You have no idea how almost-insane all Slayers are from the first instant… because the essence of the Line has been trapped alone in the dark, crazed with it for I don’t even know how long, with nothing to keep her company but a guide, and the mission, and the beckoning hope of a brief relief in death./

“I never… thought about it,” Wil breathed, and shook her head, eyes now liquid with reflected anguish. “Goddess, what an incredibly lonely millennia of an existence.”

“Endless,” Buffy agreed softly. “Singular. Unchanging. Nothing to look forward to. Just being reborn again and again into the same drudgery; killing its own possible mates over and over again, in service to something that made it a slave and forced it to exist in some kind of…” Buffy groped. “What’s the word? Anti…”

“Antithetical stasis,” Willow whispered. “Forced to constantly reincarnate, over and over without end. I just never considered it; not for a minute, what that must have done to the Slayer in question, to be used like that. To be Called to house that same essence. How _tired_ it must be to come back in again, without rest. What it must do to some young girl like _you_ were, like _they_ are, to _house_ that kind of…”

“You feel tireless,” Buffy answered, as if in a trance. “Driven. Exhausted. Chained and without will. Without escape, on this endless, haunted merry-go-round of duty with nothing to look forward to but the brief relief of a death you can’t remember or see but you know is waiting; and until then, no thrill but the kill. We’re made by and of love—for all of humanity, or we’d hate everyone—and death is our only gift.”

“Oh, Goddess. Buffy…”

“I gave up all my love when I died, and I was freed.” Buffy shifted her cup by the handle, back and forth on the table. Back and forth. Twitch, twitch. “He gave love back to me when I had none left; threw all of his into this black-hole-pit I’d become, till in the end he gave me _his_ death. Like some kind of payment. The soul he’d bought, to fill in for the one I couldn’t stand to keep.” And she thought again of what Cordelia had told her, in the vision in Hell-A, and wondered for the first time if vampires and vengeance demons were the only species with dual souls. /Do we count? We’re given another… entity when we’re called. Maybe it’s yet another way that we’re alike. And my mix just kept getting… mixier, every time./

It was a revelation, slow in coming… but it didn’t shock so much as just… feel right. Because it would make sense. 

But living it had been…

A deep, shuddering breath. “Death is my gift, and he gave me his; gave me back love. He is death, and he gives me love.” Lifting her eyes again, Buffy met Willow’s, shrugged slightly. “I think… it’s what broke the cycle for me. I think he freed me. And in a way, because we’re all one demon, just shared between all of us, at least in that way they hall have a kind of… anchor, now, because of me and Spike. But, personally, for each of them as individuals? I don’t know if any of them can ever have that.” 

“Oh wow. Oh man, Buffy. That’s… That’s some seriously heavy magicks. That’s… That’s an exchange like I’ve never heard. I can’t even…” Awe colored Wil’s voice. “No matter you’re so joined at the hip. I didn’t even get it. Why you were so messed up when he was gone. Why you were so…” She trailed off.

“Yeah.” Buffy nodded into the silence, lifted her mug, more for something to do than anything. “The problem is… that’s me taken care of. Not that it wasn’t a saga. And I guess based on what Faith’s said, it helped the Line feel a little less stressed, but still, all of the girls are their own people, with their own needs.” And she heard the irony in her own voice as she said it. “And look around you.” And she waved the mug around the room with its diffuse morning glow. “There aren’t enough vampires around who are chill enough to satisfy the itch for the rest of the girls I tricked into this gig. I lucked out, and even then, can you even call it lucky, when we had to go through what we went through to make it work?”

“Wh…”

Buffy set her cup down once more and leaned forward, shooting Wil a pointed look. “It was hard, Wil. And there was a reason for it. It wasn’t just because I was taught to hate him. He instinctively hated me, and vice-versa, even when we were drawn to each other. I mean, look. Two competing top predators who instinctively wanted to kill each other, hated each other, but whose demons wanted to fuck each other because that was the only way either of them could ever be satisfied in the sack?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Wil sounded startled and a little amused at her friend’s frank recital.

“Just being real. And look how that turned out?” Buffy’s bitterness was palpable. “We almost destroyed each other. And the best I can do to fix half that equation is take away the parts that are the lies I was taught, just in case. But the rest…” Shrugging, she looked away, out toward the small, curtained window. “I’m giving them all I can. I’m going to keep them out of government hands at least. I owe them that much. I’ve gotten more out of the deal than any of them will probably ever have. I have love. I’m rich in a way they’ll probably never know, now I’ve saddled them with the loneliness I carried alone for so long—me and Faith—and taken all the reward for myself, like a selfish bitch…”

“Buffy! You’re not selfish! You deserve everything you have right now! Goddess, after everything you’ve…” 

At her censorious glare, Wil fell silent, bit her lip. After a long moment, Wil sighed, looked away. “How long? How long are you going to… keep up your end of this… bargain? With the demons?”

Lifting her eyes to meet her friend’s, Buffy let Wil see her chill, determined smile. “For life, Wil, if they take me up on it.” 

“Oh Goddess.” Wil fell back into her seat once more.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna live forever, right? At some point doing this’ll probably kill me. They’ll send us up against some baddie we can’t handle, I’ll go down, then Spike will dust without me. Poof. Faith will take over as senior Slayer, whether she wants it or not… or if she’s already gone, someone else will.” 

Wil closed her eyes. “It’s just… Remember that old show, _The_ _Highlander_?”

Buffy’s lips twitched, amused at the non-sequitur. “Sure. Mom had a total love-affair with whatshisname. Adrian Paul. Which, okay, he was alright…”

“I came out to go to the bathroom last night. Spike was up watching it.”

“Oh. Yeah, he’s watched it before.” She felt her lips draw up in a smile. “He might even have his own love-affair with Adrian Paul, honestly. Total man-crush.” Buffy shook her head a little over her coffee cup. “God, I wish he got to spend more time with Mom.” She thought back now on two cups of cocoa, and _Passions_ , and Mom telling her, ‘How very knowledgeable that young man… Sorry. Vampire, is about art. Do you know he’s been to the Louvre? The _Louvre_ , Buffy! _Twice!_ ’ “They were practically besties; it was so weird. Just like him and Dawn…”

“He was crying, Buffy.” 

Everything came to a screeching halt. “Wh…”

“He didn’t want me to see it. He totally hid it. I pretended I didn’t notice. By the time I came back, he was completely chill. But he was sitting there with tears rolling down his face, watching this old show all by himself, at night, with you sleeping; this show about this immortal warrior who had this lover who died of old age…”

Buffy sat down hard in the nearest kitchen chair. Closed her eyes as the emotions swamped her. “I try not to think about it,” she heard herself whisper. “I know he does too. For me it’s mostly because… I mean, I never thought I’d live _this_ long. Well,” she managed thickly, “I didn’t, really, you know? But… I hope he’ll… find someone, and…”

“You know he won’t. You’ve already said it. The second you go, he’ll dust himself.”

Buffy looked at her hands, open on the table. “Yeah. Claim-yness.”

Silence reigned between them for a long moment, then, “Buffy, I’m just scared that you might still be, you know, rushing toward…”

Buffy’s head jerked up over the coffee cup. “I’m not,” she reassured Willow swiftly, before she could even finish that sentence. “I promise. Seriously.” She could feel the tears threaten, hot behind her lids, her throat tighten. “You have no idea how happy I am. How _much_ I wanna live. With him. To just… stay like this. Forever, in case…” She couldn’t say it, because she didn’t dare believe that Spike was right. Not after all he’d done. But what if he was, and when she went back, she never saw him again? /That’s not gonna be heaven. Not anymore. And if this is all we have…/ 

Then she wanted it to last as long as it possibly could. “I _want_ to be here, Wil.” / _Here_ , where we _both_ are./

Willow let out a breath. “Okay.”

“I just… I’m doing what I feel like I have to do.”

Wil nodded. “I get that. And… I hate that you always have to make sacrifices for everyone like this. But…” She looked down into her own cup. “After… everything, I was scared that…”

“I get it. But that’s not what… this is.”

“Okay.” 

They sipped their coffees for a long moment, in mutual silence. Willow broke it after a moment, then, with a little shrug. “You’re already older than practically any Slayer ever, anyway, huh? So that’s something.”

Buffy felt a faint tingle of awareness in the back of her mind. “Yeah. That’s… true.”

“Three cheers for the weirdness of Sunnydale and you being a badass womanpower icon.”

“Wil, I died like two and a half times.”

“Okay, but still…”

Buffy’s tingle was morphing into serious premonition territory. The top of her head was going to lift off. Her hand lifted of its own accord to halt Wil’s words. “Wait…”

Wil fell silent. 

“Say it again.”

“Wh… Which thing?”

“I’m older…”

“Than any other Slayer?”

The premonition hit again. Full-force. Coming to her feet, hand still lifted, Buffy headed out of the kitchen and toward the little table at the end of the hall, fumbled for her phone, left there last night when they’d returned from the club. And dialed Giles.

He answered, finally, on like the fifth ring. Which, okay, fine. ‘Buffy? Is there a problem? Is Faith alright? What…’

“Faith’s fine. This is and isn’t a social call.”

When he responded, he sounded hesitant. ‘Alright. What…’

“I’m still mad at you. And I’m sure you’re still mad at me. But I need to know something.”

A short silence. ‘Buffy, I’m not angry with you. I’m terrified, and worried, and disappointed, and…’

“Fine. Whatever. I need to ask you a question. Have any other Slayers lasted this long? As long as me?”

Her question ground the Watcher to a halt. ‘Er, no, Buffy. I mean… Aside from Nikki Wood, who died a few days after her twenty-third birthday, you’re the eldest on record. One other lived to twenty-two, having had an older sibling who killed her Watcher and took her under his wing, hid her from the Council for a time. We think there might have been a Slayer long ago who lived to perhaps twenty-four, in Ancient Egypt, but those records are spotty. Mostly hearsay; possibly a legend, or an admixture of multiple tales…’

“I thought you guys kept insane-o records.”

‘Well, there were holes, between things transferring from Africa to Europe; and anyway this was in the sixth century. Quite a long time ago, so anyone’s guess whether this actually occurred, but the story goes that the Slayer in question had a lover in the Temple of Isis, and the two women fled from the then-Council when the Slayer was meant to be doing a sacrifice to the Gods, and thus escaped Council control for quite some time to avoid her Calling. They effectively eloped, though they were eventually found and…’

“Put down?” The bleak tone of his voice was pretty indicative of a bad ending.

‘It might just be a story. A ‘mind your p’s and q’s sort of warning tale, Buffy. Otherwise, you know the story…’

Oh, she knew the story. “Any who might’ve slipped through the Council’s fingers? You know, born in some faraway land? The other side of the Pond or whatever, so you couldn’t pick them up, or…”

‘Well, as to that… That sort of girl tended to be considered… Imbued with powers given her by the Gods, as it were. Marked by them. They tended not to live long past their Calling even without a Watcher to…’

/Push them into a field where they died young fighting demons?/

At her forbidding silence, Giles cleared his throat. ‘Ah… Easy enough to note how swiftly they passed by how soon another was Called elsewhere, so any gaps were… extrapolated by our teams. At any rate, the interval was never more than a few years, so one imagines quite a number were sacrificed by their people as Chosen of the Gods, or…’

/Like Umpata./ Buffy had long since figured that their Inca mummy friend had probably been a Slayer. /God, it’s all so depressing. And it makes a point./ Time she got to it. “Then we really don’t know, do we? How long a Slayer can really live?” 

A short pause from the other end of the line. When Giles spoke again he sounded absolutely floored. ‘Good Lord.’ 

“We do have a little demon in us, Giles,” she reminded him blandly. God knew that was true, considering how Sineya had acted, and based on what she’d seen in the shadow-play.

Actually… heck. Who knew how long Sineya had lived, before she had first passed on the Line, considering that based on what that Guardian chick said, she had ended up exiling the last Old Ones. Considering that the first Watchers had made her during a period when cloth had probably just been invented, and the Old Ones had been exiled at the very beginnings of human civilization, Sineya could’ve been around for hundreds of years before she finally obtained the rest she had long since earned.

This time Buffy was answered with a much longer, more profound silence from Giles. She wondered if he was thinking any of the same things. 

She didn’t give him time to comment. He could ponder the situation in depth on his own, go through his books, whatever. She had what she needed. “Thanks for the 411. I’m sure Faith’ll be back soon. Talk to you later.” She hung up quickly, and stood staring at the wall for a second while the shimmering feeling in her scalp perked away. 

After a long moment she took a breath and headed back into the kitchen. 

“Buffy, what…”

“I had to make a call.” Buffy felt distant and odd as she turned to Willow. “Do you have your laptop handy?”

“Oh. Yeah. You need it?” Willow sounded fascinated and kind of on the edge of her seat.

“Yeah. For just a few minutes…”

Wil headed out of the kitchen to the living room. Rummaged in a bag, returned a second later with said device. “Internet?” 

“Yeah; the, um… We got a router so that Dawn could do some school-related stuff, or if we ever need to look anything up. We all share the time; the cell. Split it between us, since this is like, the clubhouse. Maria uses it a lot. I think she’s writing some kind of book.” Buffy still felt kind of distant as she went over to the counter, dug up the card that listed their ‘wireless minutes’ code and handed it over to Wil.

Wil fiddled with the laptop and code for a second. “Okay, wireless card’s up.” She turned it toward Buffy, clearly at a loss and deeply expectant. 

Buffy held her breath as she went online and started doing her research. She had never been research girl or anything, could have just asked Wil, had her friend do the thing for her, but… She wanted to figure this one out for herself first before she proposed what she was thinking. After all, it really was just one short question. And she’d gotten decent at online searches during college. Yahoo and that newer one, Google, were always good bets, though. /You just have to ask the right questions./

When she found her answer, it only confirmed everything for her. The shimmers in her scalp finally died down. And with them came the rush of certainty. 

Closing the laptop, Buffy glanced down the hallway, contemplating whether to wake just Spike, or also Faith, who also deserved to hear this. /Well, Faith can hear the results, depending on whether they think I’m nuts. But Spike…/

He’d kill her if she ran this by Wil without him. “I’m, um, gonna go get Spike. Hang on a sec, okay? I need to run something by both of you at the same time.”

“Okay?”

Moving in a kind of a daze, Buffy headed back down the hall to her bedroom. Cracked the door very gently so as not to wake Faith, who she knew was a pretty light sleeper. The Slayer in question had curled up very circumspectly on her side, facing away from Spike, toward the window, and was passed the hell out on top of the blankets that covered… well. More or less covered Spike from pubic hair to parts south. No doubt Faith had given him an appreciative once-over before cashing in. Buffy would not fault anyone for that. The fact that Spike was still unconscious meant there had been no touching. 

Hopefully her guy was still in ‘early morning stage sleep’, and would wake without necessitating Buffy setting off TNT by his ear, as that would also bring Faith to consciousness. Moving to his side of the bed, she crouched right next to his ear, slid her hand up over his motionless abs, studied his face. His hair was soft, curly, and he had the tiniest speck of what looked like an orangeish broth or sauce at the corner of his mouth. He’d showered, had a snack—probably some of the gazpacho Tiny had left behind for them—then went to chill with some ‘telly’. 

Sliding her hand up onto his still chest, she searched, in the low, undifferentiated morning light, for evidence of tears. And saw them, there, dried in his eyelashes, marking him slightly below the lids. /Lovemaking, and then sitting up to wonder, in all this trouble, what it would be like to outlive me. Dammit, Spike./

“Hey,” she whispered, and gave the bond a gentle tug. 

His eyes popped open immediately, turned to her in alarmed inquiry. “It’s okay. Sorry, I just need you to come out real quick. Need to talk to you about something.”

He started to move. Stilled abruptly. And his nostrils flared. His head jerked over to her side of the bed. Came back to stare at her, eyes widening in alarm. Buffy felt her lips twitch at the sudden, confused terror that leapt off of him over their link. “Not about that. C’mon. Oh, and get dressed; Wil’s out there waiting.”

“Buffy, what the bloody…”

He was already swinging to a seated position, sheet held over his lap in an unconscious gesture of self-protection in this compromising state. Buffy kissed him lightly to let him know he wasn’t in trouble for anything. Poor, disoriented guy, waking up naked next to the wrong woman, his mate poking him and saying they had to talk about something. He was throwing off adrenaline like crazy. It was making her jittery. 

Taking pity on him, she headed to the dresser, found him a pair of sweats, tossed them to him. He took them gratefully, pulled them on with incredible speed for a guy who was about as modest as a nudist, darting continual glances back over his shoulder as he did so at the still-somnolent Faith, then jerked up away from the bed as if sure something terrible would happen if she woke up. Like maybe she would touch him and a bomb would go off and they would all die. 

He didn’t wait for Buffy to pass him a shirt, just headed out of their room to lean against the wall outside the door, scrubbing his hand through his hair. He looked rumpled and disheveled and disoriented, and really just adorably horrified. “I’ve no clue how the chit got in there, Buffy,” he whispered, and aw, he was breathing hard and everything. “Swear to Christ…”

“I sent her there. She was exhausted. She got in right after you came to bed. I found her on the couch after I woke up and told her to crash so she could get some sleep.”

His hand dropped, and he narrowed his eyes at her, all breathing stilled for a moment while he glared little blue triangles of death. “Well, that’s just… Bloody fuck. I thought I was going to have a sodding heart attack, Slayer. Jesus…”

“Your heart doesn’t beat.”

“You know what I mean. Bloody hell.”

“I wouldn’t have woken you up either, but something came up.”

He had just started to relax a smidge. At this, he tensed still further. “Oh hell; what now?”

“C’mon. It’s faster to tell both of you at once.” Grabbing his hand, she led him away from the bedroom toward the kitchen, pulling the boudoir door closed behind them as they passed. 

When they got in he headed straight for the coffee pot. “Spike, you’re going back to bed after this conversation, so don’t drink the whole pot.”

Spike shot her an acid look, and tossed back a scalding sip, black. “Buffy, if you think I’m going to toddle back in there to kip next to a chit as seduced two blokes of yours in the past, you’ve another think coming.”

He was sweet, heartening, loyal, and she loved him like life. But. “I don’t think she’s going to pull that again. For one thing, we’re so not in that place anymore…”

“Doesn’t mean I’m like to relax in a bed with her in it. Don’t want to wake up with any chit’s hands or mouth on me but yours, yeah?”

“I love you. But I want you to sleep…”

“I’ll use the other bed, once Harris gets his lazy arse up.” He tossed back some more coffee, frowned. “Has a hangover, does he?”

“I’ll do a spell over him once he wakes up enough to consent.” Wil was looking Spike over with approval. “Spike, you are seriously built.” She turned back to Buffy, eyebrows raised. “I mean, I don’t sample his kind of merchandise anymore, but I have no problem admiring; and you know, much with the pretty.”

“Cheers, Red.”

“I’m happy with my purchase,” Buffy agreed quietly. 

“Good arms to have?”

“And chest. And abs. And cheekbones…”

Spike stalked over to the fridge, slapped it open to glare inside. Grabbed up the milk container, frowned into it. “Been told I have a great arse and a decent-sized cock as well. Why am I awake, Buffy?”

“TMI, much?” Willow protested. 

“Or is it just to provide scenery?”

Buffy smiled tolerantly at her cranky vampire. “Alright. So what I need Wil, is for you to listen to this theory I have, and tell me if I’m way off-base, scientifically-speaking, because you’re kind of the it-girl anymore when it comes to scientific demonology, you know? You’re the specialist.” Willow blushed, this time for a wholly other reason than because Spike was talking about his equipment, and looked deeply touched. “And Spike…” And Buffy turned to her love, “I need you to listen, and wait, and hear me out without freaking out till I get to the end, okay?”

He abruptly set down both coffee cup and milk. “Now I’m worried. Buffy, what…”

“Just trust me.”

His eyes locked on hers. “Always.”

“Okay. You two should probably take a seat.”

That worried them both, but they complied. “Okay,” Buffy began, and fumbled with her hands a little as she launched into it. “So, Spike, you were watching that old show, _The Highlander_ …”

Spike froze. His eyes flickered from Willow to Buffy and back again, and he frowned uncertainly. He had not expected that opener. And now he was preparing himself for some kind of attack at his vulnerable spots.

Buffy skipped past those. “It got me to thinking. So I called Giles…”

Surprise flowed through the claim. 

“I wanted to know if any Slayers had lived long enough to tell me what I wanted to know. But the thing was, apparently no Slayers have lived longer than me—if I really count, since I’ve died a gajillion times by now—except Nikki Wood…”

“She wasn’t on a bloody hellmouth!” Spike interrupted, pushing himself to his feet and sounding offended on her behalf. 

“It’s not an insult, Spike,” she soothed, feeling mildly amused at his weird need to defend her title or something, considering he’d been the one to end Nikki Wood’s career. /Loyalty, thy name is William Pratt./ “It’s just luck of the draw. Anyway, as I was saying, the only ones to come close were a girl who lived to about twenty-two, and she lived that long because she had an older brother who came back from somewhere and fought her Watcher and tried to raise her, took her off somewhere, so she had someone, you know? And some other girl who Giles thinks had a lover once, back in like the five or six hundreds or something way back when in maybe, like…” She frowned, losing her train of thought. “I don’t know what he said. Egypt or some darn place, who basically eloped with this other girl before anyone realized they were lovers, because they thought they were just hanging out doing a temple priestess thing, and the Council totally covered it up by having them both killed.”

Spike growled, sinking slowly back into his seat. Willow stared at her in horror.

“Yeah. Nice, right? Anyway, basically the only way most Slayers ever make it past eighteen is if they have something to live for, because the Watchers made sure they really didn’t, you know? It was all being sheltered and having no love and no future beyond the job, and no family and no idea there could be anything else… and if they got uppity, there was always the Cruciamentum…”

Spike snarled again and came to his feet once more to start pacing. He never did well with mention of that little ‘exam’. She watched him tear up the floor for a sec before sighing. “The thing is, because of that… No one really knows… how long a Slayer can actually live. None of us’ve ever been given the chance.”

Her bombshell had the desired effect. Spike stopped dead in the center of the floor and turned into a vampire-shaped statue. Willow gasped. “You mean…”

Buffy tilted her head a little; a move she knew she’d picked up from her lover. “Who knows, right? We _are_ part-demon; at least a little. Maybe they never wanted to find out…”

Spike hissed so loud he sounded like that teakettle of his, and flung himself down hard in his chair. It creaked like it was going to fall apart. 

Buffy dropped a hand to his thigh to calm him. “…Or maybe they do know, somewhere in there, but they don’t want to ever let us get a chance. Because I have a feeling that Sineya was around for a really long time, with the way she was all demoned out and everything. I mean, if she hung out long enough to have those Guardians as backers, who were so not from Africa—at least, the one I met wasn’t—and to take out the last couple of Old Ones… I get the feeling they made her when people were, like, just barely coming out of the Stone Age or whatever, so…”

“Christ. So then maybe she got too powerful for them, and…”

“And they never wanted it to happen again.” Buffy’s eyes rose to meet his, and she nodded. “Yeah.”

“But, wait,” Willow interrupted, holding up one hand. “You’re still _human_. I mean, you’re not…” Her eyes flickered to Spike and back again to Buffy, alarmed.

Buffy nodded. “To an extent. Though… I’m also more Slayer than most Slayers, too. But let’s ignore that for a second. I did some research,” she went on, nodding at Wil’s computer. “Really got into the basics. I wanted to figure it out; what dying really means. And what it really means—and here’s where you correct me if I’m wrong, Wil—is basically, we breathe ourselves to death.”

Wil opened her mouth… and then closed it. Spike, though, leaned forward in his chair to stare at Buffy as if she had lost her damn mind. 

Buffy plunged into the silence before she could lose her opening. “That’s what oxidation is, right? We’re slowly burning alive, slowly burning to death in our cells. It just takes seventy to a hundred years, depending on how healthy we are, to get there. When we’re still maturing, the… whatever. Regeneration-rate keeps pace… but once we’re done with that it’s basically all downhill from there. Aging is just the house slowly burning down, right Wil?”

Wil stammered back to life, sounding like she’d been hit over the head with something soft and very, very heavy. “Well, when you put it that way, basically… yeah. Oxygen is flammable, and we burn oxygen in our cells for energy; so really all life that respirates for energy dies because we’re powered like big combustion engines…” She seemed dazed. Buffy wondered if her friend could tell where she was going with this.

She turned to Spike, caught his eye. “Vampires don’t breathe.”

Spike started like she’d shot him through the heart. “I mean, you do,” she qualified softly, “but not because you need to. Not to power your body. You don’t breathe the way I do; and your heart doesn’t beat to send oxygen to your cells or your muscles or your brain. Some kind of ancient magick does that. Magick replaced oxygen in that equation."

“Oh, fuck…” he whispered. He was following her.

“I think…” She tore her eyes briefly from the intense, awed gaze of her vampire to touch briefly on the gaping witch next to him, “maybe what happens is, this baby demon comes in, sees this body its being invited to take over, and panics. It says, ‘Oh hell no! That house is slowly dying! I’m not gonna live there!’ So it stops the heart, stops all of that, because why would it _want_ to live in a body that’s killing itself? Because when you think of it, that process wouldn’t even make sense to a being from another dimension; one who’s immortal and doesn’t even think that way and would _never_ accept mortality like we just accept it as this thing that happens. You know, just collateral damage from living. So it stops the heart so that the blood stops carrying this poisonous, flammable oxygen around, and replaces the oxygen with some magick that will keep the body alive, and sets up housekeeping. And every time the body needs a new infusion of living blood…”

“We get hungry,” Spike whispered, sounding absolutely dumbfounded. “Christ, Buffy, you’re sodding brilliant.”

She tried not to blush. “I’ve just spent a little time watching how that living blood works in you. It doesn’t do to you what it does to me, you know? I get hot. I’m a warm machine. I run on all that… galvanic…” She waved a hand around in the air, out of explanations.

“Yeah,” he answered, because he understood without the need for further words; as always, when she spoke.

“It doesn’t make you all overheated,” she went on, eyes locked on his. “For you… It just gives you a short, nice glow. It literally feeds you, but you don’t… burn up from it. I think all it does is reanimates the magicks or whatever, or starts some kind of chain-reaction with the blood that’s already there. Just like the first time, when it used up whatever was left after you were drained enough to almost stop the heart, but it still had enough left in you to power the change, right?”

“Christ,” he whispered again, sounding awed.

“But by the time you woke up,” she went on, riveted to his amazed, fascinated gaze, “you were starving, because whatever was left in you was used up by the massive work that needed to be done by the demon changing you over. And each time you feed, that chain-reaction happens, and it mimics that same thing. You get warm again, you get all fired up, you get…”

“Hard and hot and hale and hearty,” Spike agreed softly. “I come alive.”  
  
“But the longer you wait,” she agreed, “the less there is left in you to start the chain-reaction. You go into power-saving mode. You start freaking out. You have to conserve what’s left. Because what’s left in you isn’t what goes in. It’s something different. It’s been changed, and there has to be enough left to change what comes in.” Buffy leaned forward to touch his hand. “Because what you have in you is sweet and powerful and totally different than what I have in me. It doesn’t even taste the same…”

Almost forgotten beside Spike, Willow jerked in shock. Buffy ignored her for the moment. “And it isn’t like I get a charge from regular blood like I do when we share, so obviously it’s been changed in you. I get to share whatever those magicks are when we’re doing claimy stuff, so there’s that for evidence too. And all that stuff requires magicks. Conscious direction; with us, with vamps… or otherwise it’s just… inert. Like it was with me and Dracula. The magicks didn’t catch. It didn’t do anything, because the words, the spell, I guess you could say, didn’t catch, didn’t animate the blood. So it didn’t work to make the link between his species and mine. He even tasted bad to me, because I rejected him. But when you and I…”

Spike emitted an unconscious sort of purr-growl, fierce in his agreement. 

“When we do it,” Buffy finished, “it’s like the direction works. So without that—without the magicks—the blood is just that. Dead.”

Spike made a noise of cautious consensus.

“Anyway,” Buffy went on, thinking it through as she posited, and turned her eyes on Wil once more. “After I found out how blood really works, I started to think. If one demon did all that just to keep its borrowed body alive, what is my demon gonna do to keep _this_ body alive? Because it’s just as dependent on me as Spike’s is, but it can’t go that same route, or I’d just be…”

“A vamp,” Spike agreed, now fascinated by her discourse. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and chin in his hand, watching her with sparkling eyes and an expression on his face of possibly undeserved admiration and affection. “I think I see where you’re goin’ with this, Love.”

/I hope so./ 

“ _I_ don’t!” Willow exclaimed, sounding frustrated. “I’m supposed to be the smart one! Jeez, Buffy, this is amazing deduction-work—I mean, all that stuff about how the blood-magicks work is phenomenal, and you have no idea how much I want to pick your brains right now about all of it—and this all just sounds totally plausible—not that I think there’s really any way to prove it right now—but how does it have anything to do with…”

Buffy held up one finger. “I heal incredibly fast.” 

Spike nodded agreement, a thrill of sudden hope surging out of him to shoot through her. “You heal faster than us. A hell of a lot faster, most times.”

“You might even call it a kind of regeneration,” Buffy went on softly, eyes darting from him to Willow and back again. “When kids do it, they hold back the whole tide-of-fire thing in their cells. They don’t degenerate; they _re-_ generate. They keep pace with the burning, till maturity, when all the super-fast growth slows to a point where some scale tips, and all the sudden all that energy goes away from keeping them growing new cells at that speed, and then the energy goes toward…”

“Making new people instead of keeping the old ones alive,” Willow murmured, sounding awed. “Making replacements instead of keeping them going. And then humans start degenerating, because they should’ve already made a replacement. They’re obsolete.”

“Right.”

“Except,” Wil went on, thoughtful now as she worked on it, “you’re not like that. You don’t make replacement Slayers that way. Or at least, from the perspective of your demon-side, you don’t. You’re it. Till you die. Then a new one gets Called. One demon, one girl. So you have to keep regenerating. Keep keeping pace, until the instant you take a fatal blow; something it can’t come back from. Then it retreats; takes all the energy from the Line and goes to the next Slayer Called.” Her mouth twisted. “Or did, anyway.”

/Till we changed things up, spread that One demonic essence across hundreds./ Buffy nodded, reached out a hand to catch Spike’s. “Even before then, though, I must’ve taken more from the Line…”

“Ever since you came back,” he whispered, nodding. “Ever since then, you heal so bloody fast sometimes that you soddin’ do it faster even than I do when I just took blood. Unless, of course, it’s your…”

He stopped dead.

“Exactly,” Buffy intoned quietly. “Slayer blood.” /Because there is something in our blood, too. It’s not just a spiritual essence thing. There’s something about how we work, physically, that’s a part of this, or that wouldn’t do a damn thing, and I wouldn’t taste and smell so crazy good to him. To them. And…/ And that had begun since before she was Called. She had always healed fast; even as a Potential. Her parents had written that off, when she was a kid, as just, ‘she’s a tough kid’, or with a grateful, ‘she’s a healthy kid’, but the fact of the matter was, now that she looked back, it was a pattern. Her vast lack of medical bills, in comparison to most kids, was real. She’d seldom gotten sick, healed quickly from the kind of hurts that tended to take other kids out of commission for weeks. Bruises and sprains from cheerleading camp, that sort of thing, healed in much shorter intervals than expected by coaches and docs… And she hardly ever got colds; an irritant when other kids had had ‘days off’ from school because of things like chicken pox.

She’d always thought them lucky. That had been why that flu had been such a shock, later on. It took the hell of a bug to take a Slayer down. “There’s got to be a reason my blood can heal anything. Even something fatal to a related demon.” She squeezed his hand. “Why it specifically heals the _demon;_ one that can already heal itself. With blood, anyway.” 

She ripped her eyes away from Spike’s wondering blue gaze to meet Willow’s shocked ones. “It’s got to be something subtle, though, or otherwise it wouldn’t’ve somehow skipped Dawn. Because I mean, that’s a whole big question-mark. And, like, how they never caught it every time I went to the hospital, or…” She managed a little shrug. “Which is why I need you, Wil. You know what the terrain is. You can go deeper than the average human scientist.” She focused hard on her friend, let her certitude fill her gaze. “You’re how we’re going to find out.”

“Wh…” Amazement percolated slowly into Willow’s bright, startled gaze. “You want me… to study vampire blood… And Slayer blood. Yours, for healing coefficents. Regeneration. And then…”

“Mine. After I’ve bitten him. And his, after he’s bitten me. He’ll be the control group, since he basically refreshes every few days. We just have to, you know. Abstain till he resets to baseline. Though how to get a control group for Slayer blood’s probably not a thing, since I’m kind of a one-off…”

“Your girl Faith might be willing to chip in,” Spike allowed. “Affects her as well, this pans out the way it sounds like it might.”

“Good point,” Buffy agreed. “When she wakes up, we should ask her. I wasn’t going to bring it up to her till we knew, but…” She caught Willow’s eye. “With that much to compare, if you look at the effects…”

“Oh Goddess…” Willow whispered. “I haven’t done science like this in years. I mean, I’ve been focusing on magicks almost exclusively since…”

No room for faltering in her faith, here. “But you _can_ , Wil. You _know_ this stuff.”

Willow buried her face in her hands. “I don’t even have a lab up there,” she moaned through muffling palms.

“Better get one going, then, yeah?” Spike answered jauntily, and moved to pick up his mug with his free hand. “That is, if you’re game. His mouth twisted a little. “We’d ask Fred, but she’s not available anymore.”

Wil reemerged from her fingers, looking stricken. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Fred would’ve been great at this. Oh, man. Okay, yeah. Oh, wow. Alright.” Her expression firmed into determination. “Okay, let’s figure this out. It’ll be… a great challenge, anyway, right?” A tiny shrug. “And I guess I kinda missed science-y stuff. And it’s not like I can’t speed things along with magicks if they’re at a standstill.” Her eyes shot briefly to Buffy’s, looking slightly hunted. “Not because I’m impatient, but just if things aren’t going well at all.”

Buffy held up a hand. “You do you, Wil. You’re a big girl. I trust you, or I wouldn’t’ve asked.” 

It had obviously needed saying out loud, the way Willow bloomed, straightening and unfolding under the words like a flower in the sun. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do this.”

**TBC…  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
** (quote by Arthur C. Clarke)  
  
Excited to hear any opinions on my little biology ramble. I've been working on that theory for a hot minute, but I really enjoy it. (You'll get to hear the rest when Wil finishes her researches.)  
  
Thank you, all!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On with the saga. Spuffy dealing with the impact of all the possibilities (an ongoing theme for a while, here).

Buffy smiled at Willow's new eagerness. “So, what’ll you need? Just some of our blood?”

Wil went directly into thoughtful science-girl mode. “When’s the last time you two… you know… shared?”

Spike grinned. “Had a tiny nip last night. Nothing major, but probably enough to muddy up the results, considerin’ Slayer blood. Before that, what was it, Buffy?”

As if he didn’t know. Fingering the tiny pinpricks on her shoulder from last night, Buffy smiled slightly. “Three days ago.”

Wil frowned; not in judgment but pensively. “Probably not long enough ago to be sure, considering you didn’t abstain last night. If you had, maybe close, but at this point…”

“Didn’t know we were gonna be doin’ blood-science the next morning, did I?” Spike protested a little irritably.

“…Might as well just do the bitey version on you this time around, see what that one looks like. You do your thing, then I can take samples and…” Wil ground to a halt, sounding frustrated. “Damn. I’ll need syringes, ampules…” Coming back to the present, she eyed them both with faint amusement. “I’ll make a quick trip to the local hospital, see if I can get the stuff we need. You two think you can handle some recreational nibbling in the name of science while I’m gone?” 

Spike rose and came around to stoop and wrap his arms around Buffy’s waist. “Sounds a terrible sacrifice,” he answered, nuzzling into her neck.

Buffy fought not to close her eyes at the sensation of his lips ghosting over his bite scar. Exhaled hard through her nose and focused on Willow, grinning brightly. “If it’s for science, I guess we could probably make the effort.” And she petted Spike’s hands where his arms had ratcheted down, tight, around her waist to cinch her close to him. The back of the chair was between them, which was uncomfortable, but she knew exactly how he would feel against her if it wasn’t there. 

The outcome might be clinical, but the… procedure would not be. Never could be. 

Wil was blushing. “Alright, well… I’ll go get a cab, then. And some creamer, too, because you need it. Is there a store close to the hospital?”

“Yeah, the Lukomorie. It’s right around the corner.” Most of Spike’s words were lost in Buffy’s neck.

At this point she was doing her damnedest not to arch back to meet his mouth. “Uh… Yeah. You might… not even have to get a cab. It’s about a ten-minute walk up the beach. Less than. Five, seven…” Buffy trailed off when Spike’s left palm spread, cool across her belly, fingers sprawling wide and close enough to her mons to hint at things best kept private. Time to breathe through her nose. 

He was keeping it mostly public-friendly, challenging her to do the same, because of course this was one of his favorite games. The ‘drive Buffy nuts’ game, the ‘how many officially-safe things can I do to drive Buffy over the edge to improper public behavior’ game. 

He loved it when he could goad her into being the one who forgot where she was… or, rather, stopped giving a damn. Asshole. Any minute she was going to turn around and fling herself around his neck like one of those dog tags of his, wrap her legs around him, and when was Wil leaving again?

“I, uh… am gonna go now,” Wil told them faintly, but she did sound amused, still, as she rose with a scrape of her chair on the tile. “Do _not_ tell me anything that happens on this table when I come back, okay?”

“No table,” Buffy corrected distantly. “We broke the last one.”

Spike made a distinctly disappointed sound somewhere behind her ear, making her shiver with the low, guttural purr of it. 

“No table,” Buffy insisted firmly, as if slapping a puppy’s nose. 

“Chit’s in the bedroom,” he pointed out, fingers trailing up her arms now and heading dangerously close to the bites there, careering toward her nipples.

Delicious goosebumps chased his cool touch in the warm room, had Buffy shivering all over. “Bathroom counter.”

“Sure.”

“I’m so leaving,” Wil, informed them, and grabbed up her satchel with a rustle to round the table and make her escape behind them.

Rising after her, Buffy turned in Spike’s arms, eyes closed and moving blindly as any moth to a flame to cast herself into the chill inferno of his touch. Dug her fingertips into his ribs as his arms closed around her, opened her mouth to his questing tongue. 

They danced together, out of the kitchen, down the side of the living room, tilting perilously for a moment toward the sofa, then righting themselves. She had him pressed for a sec against the wall… and then they were around and rocking, four-footed, through the beaded curtain, into the hall, backing into the bathroom. Unused, in this house, to taking care for the sake of company, since their friends seldom came to call till evening, and Dawn hadn’t been around in a couple of months, the faint strain of waiting to find a place added to their urgency as they pulled each other close, and him the door closed behind them, and stumbled to the counter. 

He had her up on it, she her legs around him, before any words could be exchanged. Then, “Need a little space, Love,” he murmured, breaking free of her mouth, and lowered his forehead to the juncture of shoulder and neck, fumbling with her sweats, lifting her. She obliged, pushing up against the sweep of his collarbones and shoulder-blades. Settled back to chilly tile, once pants and underwear were stripped away, and shivered at the contact to shove at his sweats as well. They billowed to his ankles, and he was yanking her close, hands cupped protectively between her ass cheeks and the cold countertop. Heated by her flesh, they were definitely a few degrees warmer, and she wrapped her legs around him with alacrity as he nudged her back till her head was against the wall next to the mirror, found her nipples with his generous mouth. 

All too swiftly she wanted more, and lifted back toward him, eyes decided on his. Caught his left hand in hers, placed it firmly against her clit, then grabbed his ass with her left hand and squeezed. And caught his cock firmly in her right to pump him, slow and sure. 

Spike’s gaze snapped up to hers, and he grinned in appreciation. “Slayer wants to play.”

She gave him a fierce tug. “Not playing. Come here.”

He shuddered deliciously and crowded close, all levity gone in naked lust. “Christ, I love it when you take charge of me like this,” he told her, eyes flaring hot on hers; still blue but sparking now with amber and hips flexing in automatic obedience to her rhythm. “When you tell me what you want of me, without qualm, and you don’t give a bloody fuck what anyone thinks.”

/Yeah, well./ “You’re the one who showed me what I wanted. What I need. And that’s you.”

He slipped his fingers from her clit for a brief second, ignoring her sound of protest, touched her lips. /Oh./ She drew them in, sucked, wetting them, saw the grin make its return… and closed her eyes as he dropped them again to finger her with now-slick fingertips. “Oh, fuck…”

“Not just yet. Keep on with that hot hand of yours, luv. Bloody hell, I love it when you do that…”

She somehow managed to keep up a semblance of a rhythm, if only by copying his. Mostly she was rapidly losing touch with reality already, because that was what he did to her, and far too readily. “Spike…”

“Alright, pet. Come here.” Freeing her for a moment, he caught her up with both hands, rocked her back and lifted her. Then his left vanished for a moment, and she held her breath for a second in anticipation, head leaned back against the painted stucco of the wall; and felt the cool, slick, bluntness of him pressing against the needy readiness of her. Felt his aching need in turn, his startled yearning for her warmth. Wrapped her legs tight around his waist, and pulled him in. And let out her breath in an explosive exhale that matched his own as she yanked him all the way home in one swift stroke. /Oh, _God_./

Arching up, she lowered her head to his shoulder, wrapped her arms around his neck. Sometimes, still, somehow, it was like the first time. Sometimes, when she took him all at once. And they both wanted it like that; to remember. 

He trembled against her, breathing hard against her pounding veins, as she quivered all around him on the edge. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck, Buffy.”  
  
“I know,” she whispered.

They stayed that way for a long moment; not looking at each other. Unlike that first time, when it had been wonder, and amazement, and awe at the way they had so unexpectedly completed each other, and they’d had to stare into one another’s eyes with the shared shock of it. It was not new, now; and they could simply feel it, share and appreciate it the way they could not have done, then. Then, there had been too much interference; too much desperation, too much fear and need and horror and wanting and loss all wrapped up in one single moment. 

Now, it was all oneness, and feeling each other. Him, home, held safe and warm in the center of his own personal sun. He had said so many things to her about it, in the poems he spoke to her in bed; of hearth and home found finally at the end of a century-long road; and tempestuous love, and the fine line between life and death walked in the fires of her body. About how fire had created man from the animal, and might destroy him if not held in check; and how it ever destroyed the animal that preyed on man… but how when he was inside her he was a man again, because she gave him the fire and made him alive.

And her… /I burn too fast. I burn up. Every second. Me, and everything, everyone around me. They made me to go up in flames; to fight with passion, and heal with fevers, and do it again. To die fast and young. I feel and I act, I have visions that burn me up, but I don’t think./ She lifted a hand to his face, her eyes to his, cupped his cheek. /But you slow me. You cool me. You help me to look, and see, and hear… To understand… and know./ 

“Buffy?”

She lowered her forehead to his, rocked her hips against him, just a little; her anchor in the whirling of life. He gave her context, helped her to fathom what was written in the coals, what the fire was made of. /You give me brakes, slow the burning long enough for me to rest./ “I need you,” she whispered, and slipped her hand down along his neck, to his chest. “Give me you.”

“Always.” Immediate, sure. And his palm, open against her lower back, pulling her in, holding her stable as she leaned back against the sure prop of him. And he was moving in her, her hands pressed behind her into the tile. And she noticed vaguely that her head was knocking into the stucco wall, and probably leaving a dent in the paint, but she didn’t care, a low, moaning grunt meeting each thrust as she joined him at the apex of each moment; building. Building, while his thumb moved on her clit and the heel of his other hand pressed against her lower belly, forcing beautiful pressure against his cock from the outside that she could feel for him, too; feel the way it felt for him, that pressure against himself, in there, and god, oh god…

“Oh, Christ, yes, pet, squeeze me like that, yeah, do it, come for me…”

“You’re… supposed to be biting me,” Buffy pointed out distantly as she gave in, and she was already going, lights flickering behind her eyes as she spasmed on him, oh fuck, oh fuck…

“Oh, yeah, shit… Forgot, was watching you, c’mere…” Yanking her up, he caught her against him, and the belated pierce and pull of his fangs, the low groan of him against her skin as he came abruptly at the taste of her, the rush of his orgasm perking through their link, pushed her over another edge; tumbling once more before she could fall away completely.

“Oh, shit…” she whispered, trembling on him as she came; with him, a second time.

He disengaged after only a mouthful. “Supposed to be biting me too, pet,” he whispered hoarsely, and dragged his tongue over her with a shudder.

/Oh damn./ He would come again, or try. And it would make her come again, feeling him. Dragging her nails along his spine, the nape of his neck, she pulled him close. Nipped at his shoulder, his throat… then dug the nails in hard against the soft curls of hair at his nape and yanked him in to bite down and suck hard against her spot.

He bucked against her and let out a sound that was almost a sob. And promptly came again, or tried, his cock vibrating inside of her. But even vampires needed a little bit of a refractory period, it was mostly him thrashing around and making half-pained, half-ecstatic noises. It still felt like an orgasm from her end of the link, though, rushing through them both, making her moan with him, and shiver with the low, pulling throb of reflected climax that made her pulse along with him. 

It was a long moment before she could speak. “You okay, there?” she whispered finally, releasing his throat. Gave him the customary little lick, though it didn’t do much good from her end except to be polite, felt him tremble in response. 

“Bloody hell yes,” he whispered, voice shaking. Clinging with his fingers to her butt, he tugged her closer, and then out of nowhere he was wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close to bury himself in her body. “Oh, Buffy…”

“Okay,” she answered, and held him in return. He was having a moment. Which was fine. She felt the same, and stroked his head with one hand where he was pressed to her shoulder. “I love you.”

“Bloody fuck, Slayer, I love you so sodding much, I don’t even know what to do with it.”

“I know.” _Stroke_. “I guess that means you forgive me for waking you up?”

He shivered. “I know I shouldn’t hope, for you, that you’ll stay with me, because it means I’d be cheating you out of goin’ back, but I’m a nancy prat and a selfish sod, and I can’t stop m’self praying that I don’t ever have to lose you. And that’s the greatest sin I’ll likely have ever committed against you, even thinking…”

She caught his chin, lifted his eyes to hers. “Stop.”

His jaw, working in silence, his eyes haunted as he mouthed her name. 

“No. Listen. Do you think I’d rather be there than here, with you?”

His eyes cut away.

/Oh, you gorgeous idiot./ “You know I could leave anytime, right? I could pick the wrong fight. I could cut my own stupid wrists. But I’m here. Because I _want_ to be. Because you give me heaven. Every day, you give me heaven. I want to keep _this_. For as long as we can. And if that means keeping you for a lifetime, then the only thing I really worry about is you getting tired of me…”

He blinked, eyes clearing in surprise. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Buffy shook her head solemnly. “I know your track record. But this is different than you and Dru, and you know it. So it scares me, knowing that someday I might not be able to keep up with you. Spar with you anymore, or that you’d have to be careful in bed with me someday, or that…” 

He stared, incredulous that she would even think such things. “Buffy, none of that would matter, as long as it’s you. None…”

“It matters to me.”

He gaped at her. She took the silence and ran with it. “At least this way, maybe whenever I do go out, I’ll go out fighting. And we won’t have lost any time together. And then you’ll…”

“Go right after you.” His jaw, set in a truculent line. “Nothing holding me anymore. Bit’ll be set by then, no doubt. No reason for me to stay. _Nothing_ , Buffy.”

She nodded, cupped his cheek. “I won’t argue this time.”

He closed his eyes then, pressed his face back to her cheek. “I still feel selfish.”

“Don’t. I’ve thought about it a lot. I should’ve realized you were too. Maybe we could’ve… talked about it, instead of both of us worrying about it alone.”

A low snort of dark amusement against her hair. “Guess some things we’re still good at hiding from each other till they become a problem.”

“Yeah, well. There has to be something.”

“Mmm.”

They were still for a long moment, just breathing each other. When the sharp knock sounded on the bathroom door, Buffy damn near jumped out of her skin. Probably would have fallen off the counter if Spike wasn’t there to brace her. 

“Hey; anybody in there?”

Xander. 

“Sodding hell.”

“Oh. Um, yeah. Be right out.” Frowning, Buffy dropped her locked legs and tugged down her t-shirt, looked around the room for her discarded sweats and underwear. Gave Spike a gentle shove when he showed no signs of willingness to disengage from her body. “Hey. We can continue this conversation outside.”

“Not interested in moving. My bloody house.”

/Your bloody house with only one bathroom. Which you don’t even have to use, and the humans do, you dope./ Rolling her eyes, Buffy slapped his naked butt. “C’mon, Casanova. Pull up your pants. And, you know, move. I need to clean up.”

“Casanova was a prat.”

Buffy pulled away a little to eye her guy with interest. “Did you know him?”

“No! I’m not that bleedin’ old! Bloody hell, Buffy! Though,” he went on in more tempered tones, “beginning to wonder if he might not have been our pal Giacomo from Rome…”

“Well, there’s a thought…”

“Okay, ew,” Xander’s voice broke in from beyond the door, “why are you both in there? Or do I even need to ask? And could you hurry up? Because some people need to pee. You know, use the bathroom for what it’s actually _for?”_

“Prude,” Spike muttered, and pulled gently away from Buffy with an unwilling grunt, which she echoed. Shuffling over to the TP, he did a quick clean-up of his own, then bent to catch up his sweats and tugged them north, after which he caught her hands in a gentlemanly way and helped her hop down from the counter. Rummaging under the sink for some paper towels, he nodded with his chin for her to go take care of her ablutions while he ‘set the room to rights’. “S’pose just for the sake of being a good host I should clean up the countertop, yeah?”

Buffy smiled slightly at his put-upon expression. Big Bad Spike, reformed demon, doing housework as payment for his pleasures, was truly hilarious. But it was really not all that unusual. She had long since broken him of things like the wet towels habit, and when it came to the rest, it wasn’t like he left it all for her. He honestly probably did more household chores than she did. It was more that he was irritated that he had to do it on someone else’s timetable than anything. “You could listen to him bitch about it all morning…”

Rolling his eyes, he set to mopping up.

Xander could be heard through the door, increasingly desperate. “Okay, really guys?”

Spike tossed his soiled towels in the wastebasket and headed for the door. “You decent?”

Buffy shrugged and turned off the tap, dried her hands to follow him toward the exit. “More or less.”

As they sidled past an incredulous, tousle-headed Xander, he stared at them in amazement. “Seriously, though?”

Buffy grinned unrepentantly at him. “This time it was for science.”

“Uh, sure, right. I’ve heard a lot of excuses in my day, but…”

“No, really. It was. We’ll tell you later.”

Xander made a face as he poked his head in the door and wrinkled up his nose. “Like I wanna pee in a bathroom that smells like…” He cut off, looking mildly disgusted as he entered and shut the door. They heard the fan flip on immediately.

“Oversensitive,” Spike muttered, and dragged her back against him. Buffy went willingly as he leaned back against the wall; wrapped her arms around his waist and sighed, closing her eyes, to rest against his long, lean body. 

They breathed together some more, just being. “If it isn’t,” she murmured after a while, “are you gonna… be okay?”

He stilled to vamp-statue-status, then, “I’ll take you however I can get you, Buffy. Was already prepared for it. Was all in. Think it’s more, how are you gonna manage it, either way, since it sounds as if you’ve a problem with it if you grow old with me stayin’ as I am.” Then he smirked against her neck. “Seein’ how lovely Joyce was, don’t imagine you’d age badly, so I don’t see as how it’d be a problem…”

“Okay, woah. If you’re gonna be creepy…” It had never even remotely occurred to her that Spike had been _attracted_ to her mother, but if… “Please say you weren’t hitting on Mom, because that’s just not something I can even remotely cope with.”

Spike rolled his eyes yet again, and she was immediately grateful. “I loved that woman, Buffy. Summers women are my weakness. Your mum was a right wonder… but I loved her because I missed my own mum, and she mothered me. I needed that, badly. Sure, she was lovely as hell, and I flirted the way I do with any lovely bird, but it wasn’t the same sort of thing at all.” A cool hand rose, stroked her cheek. “But knowing you’re like to be a looker at forty, fifty, sixty… It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

One less thing to throw in the lockbox in the back of her mind, thank god, and Buffy closed her eyes against the familiar caress. She had known how much Spike had loved her mother, had thought she had known why… And she was eternally grateful, now, to find that she had been correct all along. And as to the rest… “Yeah, well, I can still be freaked, right?”

“The more fool you, pet. Watching you grow into yourself is my honor. But…” She could feel him shrug. “I don’t have a problem either way.” And he kissed her neck. “You’re an amazing woman, and you’ll go on growing and changing no matter what you look like, yeah? You’re my Slayer, my Buffy, and that’s all that matters to me. So what really matters is how _you’ll_ manage.” His arms tightened around her, and his voice actually picked up the faintest hint of a quaver. “And… whether you’ll let it bugger up your head enough that you’ll… leave me thinkin’ you’re doin’ me a sodding favor or something.”

Pulling away, Buffy stared into his eyes. Saw the shadow there. “Is that… something you’ve worried about?”

He cut his away again, avoiding her gaze. 

/Oh./ Well, maybe she might, at that, so it wasn’t like she could assure him it’d never happen. It did sound like something she might do if she got too much in her own head. Unilateral action without thought or discussion was definitely in her repertoire; the whole ‘leave them before they leave me’ schtick. 

She was definitely capable of doing the kind of thing that broke his heart without really stopping to consider what he wanted. “I’m sorry you’ve had to… think of stuff like that without me.”

A little half-shrug. “I love you. I want you. Forever. Full stop.”

And that was all of it. He meant it. And all that came with it. No matter what. “Okay.”

It didn’t matter. Whatever Willow discovered, it didn’t matter. They would be together, and they would deal. /And we’ll be us… however that looks. Until we’re both dust./

Maybe even after. /Because I still haven’t given up on heaven for you, Mister./ She wouldn’t say that out loud to him, because he’d never believe it. But if she had any cachet with the Powers at all, if she had earned a single damn thing with Them—distant, cold fuckers though They might be—she was ready to bargain down to the basement for this one thing.

/But till then…/ Spike was an idiot if he thought she wouldn’t cling to their life here as long as possible if it meant they could be together in the one place they were sure they could both exist. Because there was no guarantee for after, and the odds were possibly against them. And that? That was no longer heaven. /Not without you./ Which meant…

This. This was now heaven. Right here. Messy, equivocal…

And perfect.

***

When Willow reentered the house, they rose from the sofa to dance down the hallway, prepared to meet her in the kitchen. Having spent the interim in touching, doing a little making out, and just generally enjoying each other, they were kind of inextricable, and made their way down the narrow causeway toward the kitchen doorway, intertwined and thrumming together. “You got the stuff?” Spike inquired, muffled because he was wholly unwilling to drag his face out of Buffy’s neck. 

Willow, Buffy noted, shook her head in tolerant amusement as she set down her satchel and started the business of setting out her supplies in rows on the tabletop. Rack of ampules, box of syringes, tourniquet. “Obviously.” As they sidled in closer she shook her head at them. “Do I need a hose? Or, like, a crowbar? Because this is, you know, kinda a one-person-at-a-time sort of procedure.”

/Unlikely scenario, Wil./ Buffy had a nice internal buzz going, the renewed connection between herself and her mate making her feel rather like Spike was tethered to her body at solar plexus, hips, and heart by unseen rubber-bands; a solid, invisible umbilicus between them, pulsing at the centers of their torsos, their wrists, their throats, their ankles and thighs… every pulse-point. Blood, calling to blood. It was always like this. 

A crowbar wouldn’t do it. “It’ll wear off after a while, but…” Sticking out her nearest arm, Buffy shrugged. “This is probably the best you’ll get for now.” /Especially when he’s not gonna stop doing… that./ Which he wasn’t. She honestly wasn’t sure he _could_. 

Spike tended to be mostly vampirical id after they’d renewed bites. It was a thing. “Hey. You wanna go pummel something after this is done?”

“Mmm,” he murmured against his mark; a whisper of lips, cool breath, nibbling, and a hint of blunt teeth. Touch-taste-smell; steeping himself in the scent-flavor of their joining, and the reminder that they were forever. “Love to.”

Probably she could keep her hips away from his, if she focused. 

Well. Probably she could keep from throwing her knee over his butt if she focused. The rest was unlikely.

“This would be a lot easier if you weren’t literally writhing all over each other like snakes in heat.” Clinical pointedness covered a growing, mild irritation over the clink-clink of ampules, the slight sucking sound of syringes being set in place. “Hold still, Buffy, I have to put the tourniquet on…”

“Nnngg… Stop nibbling for like two seconds, Spike, or I won’t be able to stand still.”

Blunt teeth froze against her neck, making her throb lightly in mid-nip. And then he lifted away to just _breathe_ against her. “You ask a whole sodding lot.”

Stilling herself with an effort, Buffy held her own breath against his adam’s apple, felt the tourniquet tighten. Waited for the burn of the needle just there, in between the precise scars of his bites. It didn’t come for a moment, and Wil’s fingers brushed, just lightly, over the scars. Buffy shivered. “No comment, Wil. Also, if you don’t want me to feel a kind of a way about you, probably you shouldn’t be touching that. It’s a little bit of an erogenous zone.”

Wil’s hand jerked back. “Oh. My. God… this is seriously like, a kinky thing, isn’t it.”

Spike rumbled a laugh against her neck. 

“I plead the fifth.”

“Goddess help me…”

“Just take the blood, Red, before I get jealous.”

“Oh, wow…” And then the needle was in, and Buffy found she had bitten, quite involuntarily, into Spike’s collarbone, because okay, so having sharp things jab into her veins and feeling the pull of blood being drawn out had a certain association for her now. /I _so_ should not be reacting the way I’m reacting to this. I _shouldn’t!_ /

Spike’s hand came up to cup her lower back, pulled her hard in against his body, and he was reacting to her reaction, and oh damn. “I’m so not gonna be decent for any trip to any doctor, or, like, any blood donation ever again, am I?” Buffy whispered shamefacedly into the hollow at the base of his throat.

His low chuckle pervaded, because he was an asshole. “Would you hate me if I said I was flattered?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Luckily you’re a right healthy bird. But if you ever wanna play doctor…”

“I _will_ deck you.”

“You’ll try.”

“Asshole.”

“Your asshole.”

The needle was withdrawn so abruptly that Buffy jumped, and a cotton swab was pressed, unceremoniously and with scratchy, unsexy finality, against the tiny hole. “Does this count as flirting, for you two?”

Buffy opened her mouth to answer as Wil moved to wrap some stretchy bandage stuff around the swab, but Spike was already moving. Tugging her arm out of Wil’s grasp, he lifted it. Their eyes met, and Buffy shivered as if it were a new thing as he lifted the cotton away and lightly tongued the tiny wound closed. 

She felt her eyes shutter of their own accord at the ceremonial touch. “Thanks.”

“Always,” he answered huskily.

“So… that can’t be sanitary,” Wil broke in, sounding frowny. 

Definitely time for some sparring. It was that or she was going to jump him. “It’s… There’s a… He has…”

“Anti-coagulants on the fangs, Red, coagulants on the tongue. When you bite amongst friends, in a nest, sometimes the latter comes in handy. The former’s self-explanatory.”

“Well, that’s interesting! There’s nothing about it in the Vampyr Book!”

Buffy’s eyes reopened, riveted themselves on her guy’s fathomless, sapphire gaze. “Yeah, well, the Vampyr Book wasn’t exactly written by experts,” she managed to point out, a little breathily.

“And that’s just depressing, since, you know, they were supposed to be.”

“Maybe that’s where you come in, Red. Interview with a vampire…”

Willow laughed; a high, startled giggle. “You are so not Louis!”

Touching Buffy’s chin, Spike stared into her eyes and smiled slightly. “Appreciate that. That bloke was a fair twat.”

“A lot more like Angel,” Willow agreed, turning back to her paraphernalia. 

“I didn’t watch that movie,” Buffy muttered, feeling left out. “Though I’m still not sure how I missed it. That was the one with Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise, right?”

“The movie was meh,” Willow answered. “Stick your arm out, Spike. Anyway, the book was a lot more detailed.”

“Detailed load of rubbish,” Spike muttered, detaching one hand from Buffy’s ass to stick it out in Willow’s general direction. “Don’t need the tourniquet for me, Red. Don’t have much in the way of circulation.”

“Oh, right.”

“Though… some of it made a bit of sense,” he went on, apparently still talking about the movie or the book or whatever. “I reckon a stopped clock can be right twice a day an’ that.” And he gave a grunt when the needle went into his vein.

Studying his face, Buffy smiled slightly at the profound lack of stirring in her guy at the intrusion. “Hardly fair that you don’t react the way I do.”

“Red’s not you, pet.”

“For which I’m profoundly grateful,” Willow murmured, slowly drawing up her ration of dark, used blood. After a second she withdrew her needle and pressed another hank of cotton against Spike’s inside elbow. “You can have your arm back now. You’ll impress me if you can lick your own elbow…”

Spike grinned jauntily. “I’m fairly flexible.”

Willow just shook her head and got to work labeling and tidying her ampules.

“Don’t let him fool you, Wil. He’s talented, yeah, but not _that_ talented.”

“T. M. I.”

“Here, lemme check it.” Catching up his arm, Buffy pressed a little, then lifted away the cotton. The bleeding had stopped, the miniature hole already closing over. “Yay Slayer blood.”

Spike closed with her, pressed against her body, went back to breathing against her neck. “Yay Slayer blood,” he ground out hoarsely.

_Shiver_.

“Do me a favor, huh,” Willow broke in, “and keep all hands visible till you’re somewhere I’m not? I’m not ready for My Best Friend Does Porno.”

Buffy refrained from informing Willow that she and Spike had performed a very pornographic act in front of their compatriots last night in the club, directly in front of their noses while they had gotten their dance on, thoroughly oblivious to events occurring against the railing ten feet away. “What would my porn name be?” she asked Spike brightly.

Spike grinned broadly against her neck and pulled away to lift his eyebrows pointedly, hand trailing down his chest between them.

/Fine./ He had said it once or twice before, wouldn’t say it again in mixed company. Not if he wanted to keep his balls intact. The jerk. Squeezing his butt warningly to keep him from daring her, Buffy sighed. “Alright, don’t answer that. Or, at least, not till I can think up one for you.”

The grin turned into a tongue-roll. “Now I’m deeply curious. What might come of that devious mind of yours, Slayer?”

/Speaking of tongues…/ She tugged his hips closer. “I’m sure it’ll have something to do with your mouth, or your…”

“TMI, guys!”

Probably they needed to get out of here. “Sparring?”

“That or I’m going to have you on the floor in a mo’, pet.”

“No free shows.”

He pouted. “Such a spoilsport. Right, then.” He tilted his head back toward the door, tugging her hips harder against his erection. “Off we go.”

They turned for the doorway, intertwined. And almost caromed off of Xander, who had entered the kitchen just then, hair wet from an apparent hangover-cleanse of a shower. “Alright, seriously, could you two get a room, for God’s sake?” he demanded, jumping out of their mutual trajectory.

Spike just kept shoving her toward the door, necessitating Buffy’s speaking over his shoulder. “Our room’s occupied. And anyway, it’s kinda not our fault right now.”

“Yeah, sure. You’re still drunk, or something. Good excuse to burn out all our virgin eyeballs…” Zeroing in on the machine on the counter, Xander stumbled forward, gratitude spilling out of him. “Oh, thank God there’s coffee.”

“Science,” Spike informed him, pausing in the doorway and still mostly nuzzling. Buffy dug her nails into his back to remind him that he was headed in the wrong direction, and he grunted. “Right. Sparring. Sorry, Slayer.”

“Mmm. Only gonna be sparring if you stop that.”

“Best way to convince me not to stop. Loo’s unoccupied right now, innit?”

“Okay, that bathroom counter thing was a one-time deal, Spike.”

“Oh my God, are they serious, with this?” Xander stopped at the table, stared down. “Why do they keep saying they’re macking for science? Because that’s got to be the world’s lamest excuse…”

Wil lifted up her little tray full of blood-vials. Xander’s mouth fell open. “Uh, okay, what the hell is going on?”

Buffy grabbed a handful of Spike’s shirt and dragged him out. Best to let Wil explain it while they made their escape, or there would be a show.

At this point it was either spar or have more sex on the kitchen floor.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(So, this entire segment, from going to the club to dance all the way through about now has a song, and it’s Lana Del Rey’s “Video Games”.   
You know, if you’re into that kind of thing.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do very much apologize for the lateness. RL be kickin' my butt. However, here we are: with the tail-end of one section, and since that was too short to be enough to post, I included the beginning of another, and then cut it off before it springboarded into another plotty-thing. 
> 
> They're thematically linked anyway. It's a segment I found v. emotionally fulfilling to write. Hopefully it's enjoyable to y'all. 
> 
> Thank you, everyone!

“So… what’s with the science lab?”

Curled up on the couch with her head on Spike’s chest, Buffy lifted up enough at this to peer over the back of it. In the interim, Willow had moved the entire production out onto the dining-area table because it was larger, and was busy tinkering away. Spike, who had been too keyed up over the possible results to head in to Xander’s abandoned bed to cash in, had only recently passed out beneath her. “Shh.” Bending over, she kissed her vampire lightly on the temple and slithered carefully off so as not to cue him in she was leaving and wake him—he had only managed to fall out after their ‘bout’ because he had had his Slayer teddy bear on hand—and moved away to round the couch. “C’mere. I’ll tell you.”

Faith eyed the sprawled-out vamp for a sec, then lifted her gaze to Buffy’s. “I made him that uncomfortable, huh?” she asked dryly.

With a quick shake of her head, Buffy shot a quick glance at Willow, who was deeply absorbed in her moving of the contents of one vial into another or something. “Not really. It’s a long story. Come on out to the porch. I’ll tell you what’s up.”

Faith eyed the heavy bag as they exited. “Why we out here, B? This gonna be a bad conversation?”

“Um… that depends on how you feel about life on this planet?”

“Oh, great.” Balling up her fists, Faith made a couple of quick warmup jabs. “And here I thought I’d eat breakfast or some shit before I got bad news. Alright, B, give it to me straight.”

Fifteen minutes later, the bag was spinning and Faith was sitting with forearms on her knees, hands and head dangling, breathing hard. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

The dark head rose, hair still tangled and unbrushed, and one dark eye caught hers, openly uncertain. Faith didn’t have any armor up right now, was facing her dead-on; last night’s smeared make-up, tank-top, hair a mess… and blatant fear in her eyes. “Shit, B… I’m ready to die tomorrow, but living forever? That’s for _them_ , you know? I don’t even know how to cope with that thought.”

Buffy nodded and looked away, to give her sister-Slayer a chance to regroup in relative peace. “Yeah. It’s a lot. I mean… it’s not like we got a lot of messages about how to deal with the idea.” She managed a faint, rough bark of a laugh. “We got a lot of the opposite, but…”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

A short, fraught silence, then… “Well, it’s one thing for _you._ You’ve got your guy to keep you stable if it’s true. But for the rest of us… how fucked up is that?”

Buffy looked down into her hands. “Well, it’s not like we _can’t_ die. I’m here to tell you we definitely can. It’s just… we might not, you know… age out.” 

Faith held her breath for a second, then nodded a little and pushed back in the chair to look up at the underside of the tile roof. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean… I guess that’s… kinda a good thing. I don’t wanna get all wrinkly and rickety. I’d probably slit my wrists if I couldn’t throw down anymore.” A shrug. “It’s just… I never even thought I’d make it _this_ far, much less have to worry about turnin’ into a grandma, you know?”

“I know.” She for sure knew.

Faith went silent again. “And… hell,” she spoke up finally. “What the hell does it mean for all the other shit?" An expression of horror stole over her weary visage. "Like… fuck. Do we have periods forever and all that fucked up shit, if we don’t age?”

Buffy blinked. She hadn’t even remotely considered that part of things. “Um… I… We didn’t…”

“The hell with that!” Faith burst out, and shot to her feet, flooded now with animation. “I’m gonna find that part out, if anything.” And she stalked back into the house.

“Keep it down!” Buffy hissed as she followed.

“Why didn’t you carry his ass to bed?” Faith snapped back, on edge.

“I’m not gonna take the risk of moving him! Do you know how long it took me to get him to sleep, with all this? It was like trying to get a hyperactive toddler to fall out…”

“Well, he’s your problem.” But she did lower her voice in deference to Buffy’s stressed tones as she reentered the main space. “Hey! Willow! What about… you know… feminine shit? Does that shit go on forever? Because if it does, I’m out.”

“Oh, God…” Xander groaned, and swiftly turned to make for the slider. “I’ll be on the beach.” As he pulled aside the curtain, a late shaft of sun came perilously close to touching Spike’s bare foot where it dangled over the arm of the couch, and Buffy cursed at him. 

“Shit. Sorry.” Yanking the curtain around him like a robe to cut off the ray, he sidled out and dragged everything closed behind him, muttering about things he so didn’t need to hear.

Willow, as Buffy turned back to the subject at hand, wore a thoughtful expression. “I don’t think…” she began finally, then shook her head with a sudden, decisive air. “No. You know what? That wouldn’t make any sense. You’d still have a finite number of ova, just like any other woman. You’re gonna go through menopause, either way, when you run out. I mean, your bodies might handle it a little different, because Slayer metabolism stuff, but yeah. I mean, this is me just guessing, still, but... The whole thing about how you’re really not rigged to make replacements anyway probably means there’s no reason for that system to be extended." Willow tilted her head slightly and pursed her lips, considering the problem. "Heck," she went on after a moment, "if it could’ve, the demon would probably have rendered you sterile, so yeah.” She shrugged distantly, eyes far away and focused mostly on the blood and the merry little fire she had going beneath one container (which was, by the way, burning on nothing, in midair, because magicks). “That’ll be interesting, though. You should probably take notes, for posterity…”

“Aw, hell,” Faith muttered, and threw herself down in the nearest chair. “That’s almost friggin’ worse, man.”

“So… does this mean you’re not gonna be our control group?” Buffy hazarded after a moment’s charged silence.

Faith’s head popped up from her blue study, and she glared. “Oh, hell, B; you know I need to know, now. Fuck.” She stuck out her arm, shot a furious glance at Willow. “Go ahead, dammit. Just… make it fast. I’m fuckin’ starving.”

Willow made a face. “Maybe you should eat first, Faith. You sound hangry.”

“I’ll eat after. I’ve lost blood on an empty stomach before. If getting sliced up by a pissed off Ferava after going two days without eating didn’t drop me, doubt you could knock me over.”

Buffy blinked. “What the hell did you do to piss off a _Ferava_ enough to make it come after you?”

Faith shrugged one-shouldered as Willow made a philosophical face that said, ‘It’s your funeral’ and reached for the syringes. “You know. We were both drunk. We were both cheating at cards. It was a thing. Everybody else got out of the way.”

Buffy shook her head. “I bet.” The needle went in. Faith didn’t even flinch. “Did you kill it?” In her experience, Feravas were basically seven-foot tall marsupials; like elongated, many-eyed koalas. Their mating habits were… Well. Best not discussed in polite company, they had a highly-restricted diet, and they could get pretty testy… but they were otherwise fairly cuddly, as demons went. If you could ignore the deep, sonorous voice that sounded like it hearkened back to the original hell-dimension they came from, and avoid the insanely-long claws.

Also, touching their skin was oddly hypnotic, they were so smooth. Almost meditative.

“Actually…” Faith answered, and leaned her head back on the chair as the blood left her body, “we kinda ended up doing the nasty.”

Now that, Buffy hadn’t expected. “You… With a _Ferava?”_  
  
“Half-Ferava,” Faith qualified, liked it mattered, then shrugged it off. “I was feeling experimental. And horny. And, you know. The skin. Was nice.”

Okay, Buffy was definitely in no place to judge, but… the _claws_ , though. How would one… get around… “That sounds like a delicate operation…” she hazarded after a moment.

“Worth it. Fucker banged like a steam train.”

/Well, okay./ She kind of wanted to ask about Ferava genitalia, but maybe it was just better not to know. And also, how in the name of Christmas could you get a half-Ferava, anyway? They were marsupial! You couldn’t crossbreed a human with marsupial species, could you? /What the heck?/

“Okay, you’re done,” Willow put in, sounding a little strangled.

Faith turned her head to regard the uncomfortable witch, and lifted one dark brow. “Oh, c’mon. You did wolfboy, and Satsu says you had a thing going with some lizard bitch up in the mountains…”

/Lizard?/ Buffy lifted her brows in Willow’s direction, because this just kept getting better and better. /And people give me shit for my thing for vampires? Just, wow./

Willow turned away to set aside the newest vial, absorbed herself with carefully labeling it with a sticker, ‘Faith’ widely blazoned on it in blue felt-tip. “There was no… _lizard_ anybody,” she answered briskly. But she _was_ turning magenta.

/Okay, so there _was_ someone, then. Someone not necessarily human?/

Buffy bit her lip as a memory assaulted her. A strangled laugh escaped her before she could censor it. “Let’s face it,” she repeated her own words from however long ago, “none of us are ever going to have a happy, normal relationship.”

Willow lifted her head to blink, having clearly placed the quote. After a moment, though, she frowned. “Yours is happy.”

Buffy shook her head, still darkly amused. “It’s not normal. And it didn’t start out that way.”

A little nod, then Wil turned away to set the newest vial in a little holder-thing. “So, maybe we’re not all doomed.”

/Oh, jeez. If Spike and I are everyone’s poster-children for how to make it work, then… Oh, man./

As Willow released the cotton patch deal to the care of her little self-sticking wrap-thing, Faith flexed her arm and spoke into the silence, blessedly changing the subject. “So… how long before we know what’s the what, here?”

Willow kept her eyes on her beakers or whatever, almost like she was avoiding the other Slayer’s intense gaze. “You’re the control group, Faith. At least till I can get something un-tainted from Buffy to compare for sure. And I’ll have to get some of Spike’s blood with all-human in him in a few days too, to be on the safe side. Before-and-afters of everybody, and then…” She did a little half-shrug. “I’ll let everyone know.” Then she lifted her eyes to Buffy’s; a brief but pointed brush of a glance. “So, you know. Abstain. Keep your teeth in your pants for at least three days…”

“Now, there’s an image,” Faith put in with a low, throaty chuckle.

“…And I’ll portal back in, or portal you two over…”

“Or, you can just leave us some stuff to do it ourselves, and we can leave it out for you to do that one spell. You know, the one where you whisk stuff away like you’re one of those bank whooshy-tubes, only magickal,” Buffy put in. 

Willow blinked at her, arrested. “You think you can do a blood draw on your own?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure Spike can. He did these…” She lightly touched the bites on the insides of her arms, “at about mach ten, in the heat of the moment, with his eyes closed, when I took him by surprise. And let’s be real. They’re about as accurate and close to symmetrical as anything can get without sonar.”

Willow snorted dismissively. “I need the blood to be in a syringe, not his mouth. His whole coagulant/anti-coagulant mouth-enzymes thing will mess up the results if he spits the blood into a jar.”

Buffy rolled her eyes at her oldest friend. “I just meant that he can find a vein accurately by instinct, or smell, or vibe, or whatever, so there’s not gonna be an issue if you want us to save you some time.”

Wil looked like she was considering it. And then her face got all scrunchy and uncertain. “I’ll let you know,” she said finally. “I don’t want to prejudice the results by altering the variables. How the blood was drawn is a variable…”

/And all the sudden she’s back; science-nerd Wil from high school./

In a strange way, Buffy had kind of missed her. “Got it. No prejudicing.”

A few hours later, Willow was wrapping up the proceeds. “You ready, Xan?”

“Yeah. I, uh…” He hesitated, eyeing Buffy. “Are, uh… we okay, Buff?”

Buffy shrugged it off with only a modicum of effort, exhaled to blow it all away. “I get it. You were trying to clear the air. And yeah. It’s all… You know. Old news at this point. So…” She waved her hand. “Let’s just…”

He nodded, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “Yeah.”

/Oh, jeez. If it didn’t ruin us then, it’s not gonna now./ But clearly it was on her to make the first move. If she had forgiven him once, for doing it, could she forgive him for compounding the mistake by lying about it, and letting it fester for five years till it became a bomb that had helped to poison her relationship with Spike, and contributed to the fallout of That One Night?

And the answer was… it was complicated. Complicated by the fact that Xander had forgiven _her_. Forgiven her for not dusting another vampire before he had killed Jenny Calendar in their Watcher’s bed, and crawled in their best friend’s window to terrorize her by killing her pet fish, and on and on and on… because that vampire had also been, in part, the man who had taken her virginity only a few days before, and… 

And Xander had, eventually, forgiven her that. And forgiven her for hiding Angel, after, when he had been feral and mad. And he had forgiven her for lying about her affair with Spike, and she had forgiven him for his bigotry about it when he had finally backed down, because how could she not, when she had shared said bigotry, been the point-person in the race to tear down the man, the vampire who had tried to love her best out of everybody. And then there was his eye, and her house, and…

And it was complicated. And it was all long over. 

Love had always been, in part, about possession, in their bunch; in the name of their own issues, and to salve their own fears. They had all had to learn a very long and hard lesson about letting go. About realizing that love did not connote ownership. About letting love be a thing you did from afar, in spite of hurt, while you just let the one you love be who they truly were. They had all had to learn to love each other for those things, without fences, instead of using that love to force each other into the boxes they expected of each other… because that was the only way to go on to keep the ones you needed most, and to alleviate your own fears. 

/What a long, strange trip it’s been. Isn’t that the saying?/ “Oh, jeez. C’mere, Xander.” And she held out her arms to him.

He came, grateful and relieved, and hugged her back. “I’m just so damn glad, Buffy,” he whispered into the crown of her head, and somehow gave the impression of being enveloped, rather than enveloping her with his bulk. “So damn glad, that we can all still love each other.”

“Me too,” she whispered back, and heard herself break on a little laugh that was maybe two-thirds a sob. “It’s a lot of damn work, isn’t it? Loving people?”

“Yeah,” he answered, and did the same kind of laugh. “Maybe we’re nuts to keep trying.”

“That’s what I said for years,” Faith piped up from the far corner, where she leaned back, arms and ankles crossed, watching with clear cynicism. 

Buffy pulled back, ignoring her sister-Slayer, because she knew Faith didn’t mean it no matter what she said, and smiled at a guy who had been the ‘lone, powerless human in the bunch’ for way too long, and somehow, despite the no doubt terrible sense of vulnerable insecurity that must have given him, the zillion hits to his self-esteem, had soldiered on at her side for over a decade, on the sheer strength of loyalty and love. He was as flawed as they all were, but on that level, he was bomb. “I love you, Xander Harris.”

He did his little, abashed smile and looked down, cheek quirked to one side and hair hanging over his one eye. “Love you back, Buffy Summers.” And he looked over to Wil. “Guess we better go.”

His eyes flickered toward Spike, uncertain.

Spike grunted and waved one hand, not quite dismissively. He was still half-asleep, but willing to let bygones be bygones if Buffy was. Mostly _because_ he was still half-asleep, probably. 

“See you, Spike.”

“Yeah. Take care, whelp.”

Xander looked a little uncertain at that, so Buffy dug him in the ribs before he could step away, wanting to end it on a light note. “Say hi to Renee for me.”

“Oh, jeez.”

As Xander stepped back, Buffy shot a glance at Willow. “You got everything?”

Wil patted her now-bulging satchel in reassurance.

“Okay.” Buffy held out her arms and gave her friend a pointed look with brow raised. “We’re doing a big hug-moment, Wil, jeez.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I was woolgathering.” Wil moved in to get hers, one-armed and awkward over her bag.

“I also love you, you know,” Buffy whispered into her ear. /In the same way, for the same reasons. In spite of everything./ “And I just want you to know I really appreciate how… supportive you’ve been in the last few weeks. You know?”

Wil shrugged inside the embrace… and gave her a shy kiss on the cheek. “Buffy, you’re so happy these days that it’s impossible not to be happy for you. I just wish…” And she halted abruptly, shook her head.

Buffy let her trail off as she let go. She knew what Wil hadn’t said. ‘I wish we’d known better and let you be happy earlier.’ 

If Wil kept living in her regrets, it would kill her. She had enough of them with Tara. And Buffy knew about living in regret. She’d done it for damn near a year when she’d thought she’d lost Spike forever. Every memory, tainted with agony, with might-have-beens, with should-have-dones. It was a swift way to poison the soul. Best to cleanse the heart and look forward, or living became dying slow. “We can’t change the past. All we can do is live our best lives now.” 

Willow nodded, smiled tremulously. “Yeah.” And she stepped away… and to the very clear surprise of a still-mostly-silent Spike, turned to him and reached up to kiss him on _his_ cheek as well.

He blinked at her as she backed up to join Xander. “What was that for, then?”

She shook her head and lifted her hand preparatory to opening her portal. “You know what it’s for,” she answered, and now her eyes were dancing. “Keep doing it.”

Spike smiled then, slow and growing like a late-blooming flower, and clicked his tongue behind his teeth. His eyes began to shine. “I’ll do that, Red.”

Buffy dropped her hand into his.

Willow shot Faith a quick glance. “You sure you don’t want me to make you a quick gate up to Russia?”

“No, I’m good for a little while longer. I’ll get in touch.”

“Kay. See ya.” They didn’t try for a big, fancy farewell with the other Slayer in the room. Faith would never tolerate the fanfare, and they all knew it. God forbid any of them attempt physical affection in the name of closing the circle on past hurts. If they dared, things would get way dicey. Faith was far too touchy, would possibly lash out like a cornered, overstimulated feline if embraced. 

Casual was her watchword, her way of keeping herself safe. God knew Buffy got that, far more than she once would have. She got Faith far more than she once had, these days.

In lieu of such paroxysms of confused affection, Xander offered the other Slayer a wave, which Faith answered with a nod and a faint, ironic smile, while Willow described an arc with one hand. A portal opened up between them and the far wall. The _mercado_ décor vanished, to be replaced with a lazily-widening swirl of eye-blurring nothingness, which slowly expanded in an ever-widening, irising circle through which one could presently glimpse hints of familiar scenery; the castle courtyard, one corner of the old stable, a few Slayers doing calisthenics in the yard…

With another wave, the duo stepped through. The portal irised closed behind them, shrank... and finally snapped brightly out of existence; rather like an old CRT TV blipping off.

The back wall of the house reappeared as if nothing of note had occurred. 

“Well,” Faith murmured, and pushed herself away from her corner. “Care if I go work your bag?”

“Go get it,” Buffy answered with a wave of her hand. “I might join you in a minute or two, since sleepyhead here still needs coffee.”

Spike grunted, but in that dopey, just-woke-up way. “Didn’t know I had to be awake for the big bon-bloody-voyage.” 

Buffy patted his butt. “Crankypants.”

He shot her a bitchy look. “Oi,” he muttered, without even the remotest attempt at offense. 

“What? You have a cute butt.”

He shook his head and headed for the kitchen and the coffeepot. “S’pose I should just wander about with my soddin’ shirt off, wavin’ my arse about like bleedin’ eye-candy. Bloody Slayer’s delight is all I am…”

“Hey, no complaints from my corner if you decide to do that, Blondie,” Faith called, and grinned as she turned to head down the hall. “Is my being here interrupting naked Tuesday or something? Because, don’t let me interfere.”

Buffy crossed her arms and leaned back a little to keep Spike in sight. Watched for a sec as her irritable vampire prodded grumpily at the caffeine bar. “He’ll live with it being shirtless Tuesday.”

“Seriously. Totally okay with the naked. I’ll join in.” Faith shot her a leer over her shoulder.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I can’t work out naked, even if he could.”

“Yeah, you have a point, there,” the other Slayer agreed, back to equable, and resumed her trek toward the back door. “A lot easier to spar with at least a sports bra on…” Her voice vanished through the door.

Giles wasn’t going to like it, that Faith wanted to stay. But he would deal. And the duration of stay was open-ended. She would be sleeping in Dawn’s old room-slash-the poker room for as long as she wanted to hang around, while she considered her options, what with everything that was coming. 

Buffy was glad. It would give the two of them time to get close again. To let bygones be bygones and feel their way back to a comfortable… whatever. Spike said he didn’t mind in the slightest having "another sexy Slayer about to spar with”, a statement that would once have put her hackles up, but now merely set her eyebrows dancing in his general direction and ended on the realization that whatever sparring went on between those two would probably pay her quite a few dividends in the sack later on. 

Besides. To her surprise, now that the air was more or less clear with Faith, things between them were even kind of… oddly comfortable. It was… nice, having her around. /No more weird mixed signals, in that I know exactly what the signals are now. I can just choose to let ‘em fly by, or cheerfully play along, because finally we all know the score./ It was kind of… refreshing to be an adult about this stuff, instead of a scared kid. “Hey?” she called after Spike.

“Mmm?”

“Gonna go hit the bag with Faith. Maybe take her over to the dojo later, see if she wants to join in with the students.”

A chair scraped as he pulled it out and settled in at the little kitchen table. “Might see you there after dusk, if I feel like getting my arse handed to me.”

Buffy felt a smile flicker over her lips as she uncrossed her arms and headed toward the back hall. /You know you love it./

* * *

_“When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”  
_

* * *

_  
_Faith blended right in with the rhythm of life down by the water. She spent a lot of her days down at the warehouse dojo, beating the shit out of the equipment there, and even took two of the Thurgald girls in hand as a sort of pet project. Which turned out to be a blessing, since they really started to blossom under her scrappy, one-on-one tutelage.

Buffy felt like she was really getting a lot out of the new seasoning to her fight-y day, as well, and kind of thought Spike felt the same. Three-way sparring was a lot more interesting than the beats they knew by heart with each other, had a new element of exciting, fun newness. And Faith… Well. Let it just be said that she was still the hell of an unpredictable fighter. Which meant she brought out the unpredictable, street-tough side of Spike, which in turn made him more impulsive than he had been in a while. Every successive session had the three of them on their toes.

When Spike fought one-on-one with Buffy, he tended to be more ‘disciplined-warrior-guy’, pulling out all the stops he could find between dirty-fighter and well-trained artist. Throw Faith into the mix and he got downright filthy, devolved into the nasty monster he’d been when Buffy had first met him, which could be… exhilarating. 

It sparked something in Buffy that she hadn’t felt in a very long time around her guy, and, well… Things in bed got a little ferocious for a while. Which he seemed to find just as entertaining as she did. 

Faith invariably headed out for a while, as well, after their sparring sessions, to go find some horizontal action. Buffy wasn’t sure who she had out there, but she kind of thought it was someone fairly regular, the way their scrappy houseguest acted like she had someone in the area on tap. Or, at least she definitely acted like she knew exactly where she was headed every time she bailed, and always seemed to come back acting more relaxed. Maybe the person she’d eventually hooked up with at La Escena had been worth a few more ‘goes’ or something.

The other Slayer was also a damn good poker player, as it turned out, which got the attention of all attendees. She also flirted with literally _everybody_ in the circle, male and female and including Betta George, who seemed incredibly amused by this fact.

Nina seemed mostly confused by the flirting, if less so by the teasing sent her way regarding her past affair with Angel. She blushed more than once when questioned about things like the size of ‘King Aureliuses’, equipment and the duration of his vampirical stamina (an interrogation Buffy made sure to leave the room for, with the excuse that the table looked like it was low on refreshments). On the other hand, Gris and Rinne were chill, and seemed to have no problem flirting back. Nor did Jamal, till Maria stared at him in amazement, at which point he immediately toned it down. Amazingly, and showing a new adult respect for boundaries, Faith read the room, chose to keep burgeoning, if casual, relationships intact, and promptly stopped flirting with him at anything but a completely light, surface level that was way impersonal and mostly just the, ‘I’m only doing this so that I’m not leaving him out’ kind of deal. Still, that was the most Buffy thought she’d ever seen Jamal interact with anyone who wasn’t Maria, so that was cool.  
  
Interestingly, Jamal didn't seem to mind it when Maria flirted back with Faith. In fact, he tended to grin and join in when that was the case, and Buffy honestly found that whole thing a little odd. You either did or you didn't flirt with other people, and that rule should go for both of you. Otherwise, double standard, much?   
  
It made her consider how she felt about the way Faith flirted sort of across the board between her and Spike, and how once upon a time she had internally freaked the fuck out over the latter. Now she mostly just let it fly right on by, because she wasn't remotely concerned. They all did it and it was harmless. And, well... /That's what it comes down to, isn't it? If you're not worried, it's no big. Just a game./ And, wow, that really did highlight just how very territorial she had been over Spike when he'd been living in her basement... and how incredibly uncertain she had been over the thing they had or hadn't sorted out between them; and damn, she had been crappy at reading her own emotions back in the day.

Anyway, aside from providing a lot of help in the training and sparring departments, Faith’s presence was seriously lending weight to their argument that Buffy could swing more Slayers on the side of the pro-demon debate. Granted, at this point it was mostly a tissue of daydreams, but none of their demon contacts needed to know that. 

In general, it was actually pretty nice having her sister-Slayer around, which was why Buffy was a little thrown when her girl came to her after a week and change, looking a little ill at ease. “So, I guess I better head back.”

Buffy looked up from her morning workout with the speedbag. She knew that tone; the attempt at diffidence, combined with a note of ‘I don’t care’. It was a self-saving performance. “You’re not bugging us, Faith.” Might as well just cut to the chase. If Faith was really uncomfortable with staying in one place for too long—or with staying with them, for one reason or another—then that was fine, and she was obviously free to go. But she should know there was nothing from this end shoving her out the door.

Faith eyed her for a moment, as if attempting to read her, then looked away, jittering a little and ill at ease. “Yeah,” she started once more, “but I don’t wanna overstay my welcome, you know?”

Buffy knew Faith, and the watchword there was definitely hold on loosely, so she just nodded and redirected her attention toward her workout. “Well, it’s up to you, but everything’s fine from this end.”

Faith just watched her for a while without comment, then nodded and reached out to pick up her towel, tossed it over her neck. “Gonna go for a run. Need to think.”

“‘Kay.” It was weird, this limbo state. Buffy didn’t want to push… but oddly enough, she kind of didn’t want her sister-from-another-mother to leave just yet. It was nice having someone else in the house; in fact, it almost felt… right, to have Faith around without Dawn here, which begged the odd question. The two of them had never quite felt right in the same place; so who knew, what it had changed, her having been entrusted with her younger sister. How had things really gone, between her and Faith, before the monks had come and rearranged everything? 

It was so weird, so beyond unsettling, to not know one’s own true history. Buffy did know on some deep, instinctive level, however, that for possibly the first time since that brief window when they had truly felt close back in the day, she and Faith really seemed to be getting along again. It was fulfilling some… some aching, pained thing inside of her that yearned and wished for recapitulation on that front. For healing. /I just wish I knew how it really went down, before. Not that it matters, since however it really happened, we both remember only what they gave us for memories./ 

It was strange, since they both had to contend with those obviously-altered recollections of a time that never was. For Buffy, it was time spent clinging to Faith as age-appropriate relief from being stuck babysitting a loudmouthed, tagalong baby sister, coupled with, ‘thank god someone understands what it’s like to be a Slayer, and to live under the onslaught of hormones all at once’. Thinking about it now, outside of that lens… how had it been really, without Dawn? To have been an only child, and to truly feel sisterhood for the actual first time?

Had they been even closer, then? Had it hurt even worse, when she’d lost Faith? Heck; when she’d lost Kendra? Had the death, and then the betrayal, been even more painful? Had the relief at coming tentatively close to Faith, and to Kendra, been even more vast the first time around, as a lonely singleton? Or had it been greater in the reconstruction of her mind post-monks; desperate with the need to escape the pressures of a trammeled older sibling, set atop all of the rest?

All she knew was… it was nice. Nice to have Faith back in her life, and to have it be… warm. Pleasant. Almost… easy. And she wasn’t ready to let that go.

Not to mention, Faith should be here for the grand reveal of whatever the hell it was that Willow figured out from all their blood samples. There was at least that. So, call her greedy, but she would for sure bring that up whenever it was that Faith got her head on straight and came wandering back in from her run. After all, they really didn’t know anything new yet. When Day Three had rolled by, Willow had cracked a portal to pop her and Spike briefly over to the castle to get samples of ‘clean’ blood. Faith had waved them off before they’d departed, with a snarky comment about abstinence, one Spike had returned blithely with mention that tasty Slayers wandering about shouldn’t judge. “Oh, don’t try me, sexy,” Faith had answered, flipping her favorite stake from hand to hand without even lifting her eyes to his. “That’s a you and Buffy special. This Slayer’s way off the market for snacking-with-benefits.”

Buffy had rolled her eyes. “Down, girl. He wouldn’t bite you if he had an engraved invitation. He likes all his parts where they are.”

A guffaw from Faith, who seemed to find their power-dynamic darkly hilarious. 

“But word to the wise; you should maybe try it yourself someday. You _really_ don’t know what you’re missing.”

Faith had shrugged, eyeing them both up and down with an assessing sort of interest. “I like my edgeplay with knives, not teeth.”

“You like to be in control.” Spike had taken on a snarky air of his own. “Slayers tend to, I’ve noticed.” And he’d grinned pointedly. “Most of the time.”

Faith’s eyes had drifted briefly from him to Buffy and back again, and she'd smiled faintly. “Yeah, it depends.” And she'd flipped the stake up once more, caught it, shoved it into her waistband. And shrugged. “Have a nice trip. Let me know if there’s any news.” And she’d headed out through the slider toward the beach.

With a shrug, Buffy had tugged Spike through the waiting portal, and they’d stood around shivering in the chilly hyperborean air while Wil did her blood-draws quickly and efficiently. During the wait, Buffy had eyed the small laboratory their friend had set up in one corner of her bedroom, next to her laptop. “How’s it going, Wil?”

Wil had frowned at the assorted beakers and things. “I really wish I had Fred back. I need her.”

A ripple of old pain had blazed through the link; expected, but no less agonizing to feel. “You and me both, Red.” Spike’s response was fervid, vehement.

“I mean, I can do this with magick, but with her lab and her scientific background… It was just so much more advanced than mine. After I got with the magicks I started seriously slacking off on the science-y stuff.” Wil had actually sounded a little like she was having a self-confidence issue, which wasn’t great. 

Accordingly, Buffy had leaned forward to touch her arm. “C’mon, Wil. Scully something for me. I know you still have what it takes.”

Willow had lifted her eyebrows briefly, then shook her head, a funny little smile touching her face. “You do?”

“Well, you’re a redhead, right? Didn’t you say that Scully was the best because she had redhead power?”

Wil had drawn herself up then. “Yeah. I did.” And then her tiny grin spread. “She was also hot, which helped. I think she might’ve been part of my sexual awakening.”

“Don’t think anyone would begrudge you that one, Red,” Spike had put in blandly. “Thinking man’s crumpet, that bird. Anyone didn’t fall for her didn’t have a brain in their head.”

“Oh?” Buffy had inquired, interested in this little sidebar. 

Spike merely lifted his brows dismissively and turned back to Willow. “Got what you need, pet?”

“For now,” she’d answered, and set aside her ampules with a tiny shrug. Then she’d turned back to them, an oddly instigating look on her face. “How’s it going having Faith around?”

/Oh, jeez./ “It’s been fine. Pretty chill, actually. She went and bought a game somewhere for the PlayStation so she could try to kick Spike’s ass, since he wouldn’t play ‘Crash Bandicoot’ with her…”

“That’s the Bit’s game. Would be sacrilege to play it with anyone else.”

“So they play something weird where they fight each other, like they can’t just do that in real life, because they’re a couple of nerds…”

“It’s a whole other bloody thing to see who comes out on top in ‘Tekken’, love.”

Time for some massive eye-rolling. “I rest my case. But I think she’s starting to get antsy. She might ask you to portal her back soon.” Buffy had caught herself frowning over the thought.

Eyeing her with a strange expression on her face, Wil had nodded quietly. “Tell her I can do that. No big.” And her eyes had risen to meet Buffy’s. “But something tells me you’re gonna try to drag this out for a while. I think…” Her head had tilted. “You’re big on the whole reclaiming relationships thing these days, aren’t you, Buffy.” It wasn’t a question, and she hadn’t waited for an answer. “And I know… back before things went really bad, you and Faith… really loved each other. So I don’t blame you for trying to make it right. But…” She'd hesitated.

Buffy had tensed, sighed. Felt Spike’s stance shift to silent-supportive as she braced herself. “What, Wil?”

Willow had braced herself visibly in turn and faced her down. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up too much. There’s… a lot. With you two. And Faith’s kind of a hard case. She pushes back. She’s not big on letting people in. I’d just hate for you to get hurt again, when you reach out the way you do. Because you’re always the one who gets hurt. And that’s not fair to you.”

It was the observation of someone who knew her, had seen her even when caught up for years in her own concerns. The observation of someone who deeply loved her, and it had filled Buffy with enough warmth to unfreeze her armor. “I appreciate that, Wil, but… Things between me and Faith have been a lot better lately, and I need to capitalize on that while I have the chance. I won’t push her too hard because I know better, but I need to let her know the door’s open, or she’ll shut down again. I promise, I won’t put my whole soul into hoping for some kind of miracle, or anything.”

Will had nodded, smiling slightly. “Okay. That’s all I ask.”

Which was why, here, a few days later when Faith returned from her run looking set, Buffy didn’t chase, and she didn’t try to force anything. “Well, we’ll definitely let you know what Wil comes up with, when she finishes her experiment-thing.”

“Yeah. For sure. I definitely need to know if I’m gonna live forever. Talk about a mind-fuck.” Faith slung her small, black duffle over her shoulder. “Not sure where I’ll be. Probably do the stay-moving thing for a while. Maybe tour the cells, see what these infants have going for ‘em, give ‘em all a little challenge. Scare the lazy ones into working harder…”

Buffy hid a small smile behind rubbing a finger under an ‘itchy’ nose. “Yeah. Go show ‘em how it’s done. When she gets back to us, we’ll find you and keep you posted.”

“Sweet.” Faith shrugged. “Anyway, thanks for letting me crash…”

Buffy almost held back, kept it casual, but… “Look.”

“Yeah?” And, of course, Faith tensed a little, but it needed to be said. 

“I know you’re not sure about the whole plan-thing… But you don’t have to throw in with it to be here. You’re welcome to make this a place to touch down, anytime. You know, if you need to get away from Giles, or you need a break from the baby Slayers, or if you just need a place to crash for a while. Okay? No pressure, but… this can be one of your safe-zones.”

Something in Faith’s entire being, something that Buffy thought had been tight and defensive in her presence since she could remember seemed to exhale, relax… and Faith smiled faintly, a hint of surprise in her eyes. Then, “Yeah? I’d like that, B.”

Buffy nodded. “Okay.”

“Alright.” She glanced over her shoulder, jerked her thumb that way. “Well, I’d better run, before the thing closes up…”

“Yeah.” Buffy let her go before she went and had too many visible emotions in front of an audience.

"See you later, Blondie." With a nod for her, and for the vampire over her shoulder, Faith turned and made a break for it.

The portal closed up behind her.

Spike’s hand fell to Buffy's shoulder, his thumb lightly caressing her cheek. Buffy tilted her head to lay said cheek along his knuckles and closed her eyes. 

“You alright, Love?”

“Mmm. Yeah.” Something prickled a little behind her sealed lids, but it felt… like good tears. “I think… that was the first really good healing we’ve had since we were seventeen-year-old kids. You know? So… yeah.” Turning, eyes still closed, she sought and found her safe place, which was in Spike’s arms, and was enclosed. He stroked her hair while she buried her face in his throat and sighed. “It’s good.”

“Then I’m glad, pet.”

“Me too.”

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(quote by Wayne Dyer)  
  
Next bit, we get into some interesting local politics which further inform Buffy's understanding about things vamp and slayer, and which help her to conceptualize how she works, how Spike works, and help to lay the foundations for whatever will come when they get their answers from Willow, among other things.  
  
Thank you again, everyone!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I had fun with this chapter. More fun vampy dynamics stuff in the vein of, 'how do vamps work in the wild, away from the hellmouths of our fine world?' And, then, a neat little conversation between Our Heroes over the thoughts their observations brought up for them, in the context of recent events regarding possible longevity, etc.
> 
> This was just a really interesting chapter to construct, and I hope it's as fun to read as it was to write. It sets some groundwork for some later (comics) stuff, in a weird, subtle way.

A few days later, Buffy was just hanging up after a call with one of her students who was talking about stepping up his lessons to three days a week, when Spike’s voice broke into her thoughts.

“Hey. Slayer.” His tones caught her attention as she closed the flip-phone. He sounded tense, vibrant with interest and… something else. Something… not quite worried, but... “Got somethin’ interesting, while we’re waiting to hear.”

“Oh?” Setting aside the phone, she turned to her guy. “What’s up?”

He held out the little local paper, _La Gaceta_ , flapped it slightly in her direction. “Happened to glance at the obituaries…”

Buffy frowned, already worried. “Why are you reading the obits?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Never know what might be goin’ begging, is there an estate sale or summat. Could maybe liberate us something right nice…”

/Oh, for God’s sake…/ You could take the vampire out of the scrounging, but you couldn’t take the scrounging out of the vampire. “You’re a dope.”

“Well. Be that as it may, found something a bit more interesting than throw rugs, Love.” The twinkle in his eye sobered somewhat, catching her attention once more. “El Poniente had a lad in it, being treated outpatient, for kidney failure. Some sort of viral business, to affect someone so young; goin’ in for regular dialysis at nineteen, yeah? Only had a few weeks left, had already had a transplant but the virus had attacked the new kidney too, so he wasn’t on the list anymore an’ the lot. Had a few weeks left at best…”

It was tragic, but not exactly in her wheelhouse. “Okay?”

“They buried him last night. Dropped dead unexpectedly, right there in hospital, but not from kidney failure.” Azure eyes rose to meet hers, solemn. “Exsanguination.”

Buffy closed her eyes. “Neck trauma?”

“Got it in one.”

“Well… crap.” This was so going to put a crimp in their ongoing negotiations with the local demon community, but it had been bound to happen, right? Her Calling, coming directly into conflict with the burgeoning armistice.

“Probably should walk softly, yeah?” Spike put in, quiet and supportive, ready to talk it through. “Put out feelers, see who did it. Won’t be tough to suss it out, considering the size of the community hereabouts.”

He had a point. “Do you, um, know all the vamps around here?” She had already been walking pretty damn softly when it came to that portion of the demon community in the area. She had introduced herself to any number of other demonic sorts around down, but when it came to vamps, it had seemed the better part of wisdom to avoid scaring the shit out of them, or even creating a mass exodus by waltzing in and letting them all know there was a working Slayer in town. Which she wasn’t, anymore. Working. She was retired, or had been, weird as that felt to say, so doing something like that would be kind of like that scene in a movie where a guy came into the boys’ locker room and slammed all the doors and let everyone know he was the new BMOC. Bad plan, for a person who had wanted to settle in all quiet-like and just submerge herself, feel her way around slowly instead of making a big bad splash.

Accordingly, she had felt it the better part of valor to play things a little more subtle when they had first moved in. In lieu of making a lot of noise in the first weeks, she had instead begun quietly frequenting Krzahks with Spike in tow. A sort of ‘letting herself be seen and felt without slamming any heads into anything’ approach. Then, when the rumors began to spread along with a susurrus of growing fear, they had begun to spread the low-key word that she wouldn’t bother anyone who was willing to live and let live with the humans in the area. Spike had done a lot on her part to ensure that her entrance hadn’t coincided either with a lot of mano a mano fights, or a mass exodus of the less feisty members of the underground populace. He had put it out there via his already regular poker game that she wasn’t there to start a fight, or get all rowdy; a stance bolstered by the fact that she in no way got into anyone’s face. 

Eventually, the locals accepted the novel idea that the local Slayer was, of all things, retired, and not interested in measuring the length of her stake against any comers. 

Well, most of them had. She’d had to put down a few aggro-driven jerks with high estimations of their abilities—basically the demonic equivalent of jocks with testosterone-poisoning—but she hadn’t started any of those fights, and had tried to finish them without killing if she could avoid it. For one thing, she hadn’t wanted anyone back at any of the Organization cells, much less HQ, to find out where she and Spike had landed. News might spread that a random Slayer was living down in the south of Spain, but as long as she wasn’t acting like ‘General Buffy’, kicking ass and taking names, they would probably fly under the radar. 

Luckily, in the past it would have been Xander who would have been dispatched to go locate this new Slayer and ask her if she wanted to join the Organization, since he’d been the de facto head of recruitment and retention. These days he had most likely passed off that task to others, delegating some of the away-missions to the younger set now he’d taken over the HQ. It seemed obvious, though, that he had kept suspicions on the downlow on their behalf, because no one had ever shown up on their doorstep with a calling-card from the Slayer set, asking did they want to join up. 

Word had to have gotten back eventually, after all, which had led Buffy long since to wonder if her friend had suspected that this specific area was where they had set up shop, and he had just never mentioned his suspicions to anyone. If so, they owed him a quiet thanks for his discretion. After all, he had been privy to the general area they had chosen for their resettlement. Buffy had insisted to Spike they inform him at least regionally-speaking, so that he could run interference for them if necessary, keep the junior set away from their locale by shrewdly manipulating mission assignments. Spike had bowed to her sensibilities. And in the end, it had turned out to be the way to go, because clearly Xander had turned the trick for them, with admirable canniness, considering their little pocket of Spanish coast had remained untouched by Organization feelers for damn near eight months. 

Word may not have gotten much past the nearer towns when it came to the other Slayers, but it had definitely spread amongst the local demons; a sort of ‘Do not mess with the Slayer living quiet down there on the beach’. Incidentally, with an elder vamp who was, himself, not being particularly rowdy. As such, they had slipped into the local underground population without much of a ripple, and remained submerged here for this long without all that many incidents.

Would this illicit siring, then, be the thing that stirred that pot? /I don’t really want to have to stand on that line, make any edicts, be loud again. Is there a way to…/

“Know some of ‘em,” Spike interrupted her thoughts. “In the way of hangin’ about the same dives together waitin’ for the blood to roll off the line.”

/Oh. Right./ He had, after all, spent his own time counting minutes behind the hospital, the two local mortuaries. It would have given him time to get to know at least some of the little seaside nests and their members. Though, she had always kind of considered him to be the sort to be… well. Standoffish toward others of his kind. Even a little haughty. Heck; even before the chip had marked him out as lone gray-sheep and oddball of the vampire world, standing silent on the coattails of his tattered dignity, Spike had never seemed to spend a lot of time consorting with other vamps. As far as she could recall, he had always kind of tended to look down on them; either treating them as some sort of lesser being—offensive ‘blighters’ who just weren’t on his level. A lower life-form with poor unlife skills and hygiene—or just generally the sort of barely-worthy-of-being-a-minion peon who didn’t know how to properly execute his grand plans, and mostly just got in his way. 

Spike was always… Spike. Youngest Master vampire on record; Big Bad with a destiny, a plan, shit to do and no time to waste putting up with idiots and ‘tossers’. But maybe that was a hellmouth thing? Maybe he was more genial to slightly more adult vampires who’d made their way in the world for a little longer, and weren’t the sort of dregs who came to party at the Boca?

Still, she had a tough time imagining him striking up anything but an awkward conversation with other vamps while waiting in line for blood behind a hospital. /Really, honestly, what would he have to say to them, anyway? Like, what do vampires talk about while they wait for black-market blood? What passes for, like, pleasant conversation with vamps who’re trying to stay under the radar in human towns, and don’t want to get themselves all riled up chatting over the glories of past kills? ‘Who’s nice to eat around here’? ‘Been to that one club around the way? It’s loaded with B-positives,’ or…/ 

Buffy snorted inwardly. It wasn’t probably like that at all. Most of these vamps would probably feel Spike’s relative age and Slayer-fed strength, and avoid conversation entirely. If they spoke to him, it would be when spoken to. And heck. Knowing her guy, the conversation would be either clipped, or stick to things like music appreciation. What band was coming to a town near them and might be worth a listen, or something like that. Hell, he might even chat with a younger vamp about one of his precious videogames, but he’d be unlikely to get into a feeding convo. It just wasn’t his jam. Never had been. Even when he’d been Mr. High on Life Psycho-Killer Big Bad, he’d bragged about who he’d killed and how, but he’d never been like Angel, wasting his time luxuriating over descriptions of precisely _how_ he had ‘done’ them. He’d certainly not lavish time and effort over loving descriptions of mayhem these days, with the soul in place. Which probably left him out of a lot of standard vampire conversation.

Though… /Is it other vamps’ style, to sit around talking about, like, blood-types and where to hunt, or do they talk about other stuff? I mean, the ones in that nest at the college were talking about other crap, I think. But, also… they were high. And Harmony had the unicorn fetish, but… Okay. Harmony’s just… Harmony. Is Spike way overly weird, or is it normal for vamps to have, like, hobbies, and…/ 

/And I should _know_ this. I should…/ She had been living in serious intimacy with vampires for years now, knew way better than to boil them down to just blood-hungry animals with the single, shared pastime of mayhem for the sake of mayhem. /That was as much a hellmouth-colored thing as…/ 

And yet. /Ugh. Don’t be dumb, Buffy. You know how much of the person’s left in most vamps. Once the fledgling feeding frenzy’s over and they have the time to care about anything else… And most of these will be older, or they wouldn’t be able to submerge into the population, so... Probably it’s normal. After all, the only vamp I know that _didn’t_ have a hobby was Angelus. Which…/

She frowned inwardly, blew out a heavy exhale. /That’s not even true. He had a hobby. It was just rape and torture. Because _he_ was the weirdo. Heck, even Drusilla has a hobby. She collects dolls. I mean, to be fair, Spike says she mutilates them, but you know. She has good reasons for that./

“If it’s a functioning nest,” Spike broke in quietly as they headed toward town, and then halted abruptly, as if thinking hard about how to respond to the meat of her query. “If it is the nest I think it is… then I’d counsel you listen, give a fair hearing before you go off half-cocked with the stake. There’s a lot about how a well-set-up nest handles its fledges that you’ve… never seen. Not in Sunnyhell.”

And that, in its own way, was enough of an answer. He must, then, know most of the local vampires, if he could make an educated guess as to who had sired this dying kid. 

/Which… To be fair, if he was already dying…/

Did vampires do mercy-sirings? And if so, why? “You… When you sired Ford…” She bit her lip then, because she had never talked about that with him. Also, she had never fully understood why he had done it. Ford had just been a means to an end to Spike, back then. Why had he kept his promise to someone who was basically collateral damage?

Spike halted briefly, mid-stride, to turn to her. “That the bloke who betrayed you to me an’ Dru, along with all those idiot soddin’ children playactin’ at bein’ vamps, in exchange for bein’ one of us?”

She couldn’t help it, cut her eyes away, because, okay, yeah. It still hurt. Knowing how much agony her childhood friend had been in… And yet, that he could… _do_ that to her. It was…

Spike sighed, cast his eyes toward the heavens, where scudding clouds slid over the moon, then revealed it again to silver his face with ethereal light. “Brassed me right off that someone who’d known you for years could play you false like that. Didn’t really want you to go out like that, even though I’d’ve taken the chance, if it meant getting ahead of you. I was that desperate, by then, for Dru’s sake. Bloody well wanted to off him for bein’ a waste of skin, though. Thought he was a right ass… but I’d given my word. And whether you’d gotten out of it or not, he’d delivered. Wasn’t his fault you’d bested me again, like the bright-as-balls lass that you are, so, yeah.” He shrugged. “I saw to it he was turned, as promised. Not that I thought the little traitor deserved it…”

“Saw to it…” Buffy blinked, taken aback by his careful terminology.

His eyes remained on the dimly-lit skies, the quarter-moon hanging there. “Dru was the one knew how to sire people, pet. I’d never done it, since Mum; which…” A hint of understandable discomfort entered his stance, his tones. “To be candid, I’d always wondered if I’d done it wrong, and that was why…” A swift, negating jerk of his head. “Wasn’t about to try it again with a tosser like that, who’d blackmailed me into it. Not for the first real time. So… saw to it she did it, and got fed into the bargain.” He shrugged it off. “Figured you’d off him soon as he rose, anyway, and we’d not need to bother with the prat. And if not, he wouldn’t be the first minion of Dru’s I’d have to stake, eventually. Meantime, I’d’ve kept my word.”

/Oh, wow./ Well… it was an answer, if a convoluted one. Spike had been driven by his demon then, not his human side, except in some very specific circumstances. Most vamps would be. The siring in question hadn’t been about mercy, but about keeping his word. He hadn’t cared in the slightest about Ford’s suffering. He’d been, after all, just another human. Humans died all the time, in various ways. But Spike was, and remained, someone who kept his word, whether it inconvenienced him or not. Also, his priority, then as always, had been about taking care of his companion, who had been, at that point, his sire.

He was admirable like that, had been even at full-on demon. 

Her beautifully complex vampire.

Well, it remained to be seen why this one they would meet had been sired. 

They made the tiny local cemetery in minutes, located the young man’s grave with little effort. It was easy enough to find, since there were, no shit, seven vampires standing around it in a loose semicircle, awaiting the rising of their newest member, and wow. Talk about a welcoming committee.

The whole nest turned to eye them as they made their quiet approach… and as a body the vampires tensed when they sensed Slayer, recognized Spike. The moment hung on a dime… until Spike halted all incipient violence with a raised hand. “Not here to cause problems. Slayer just wanted to see… how it could be different here, in a family, than it was on a hellmouth. She needs to know… it wasn’t done out of a wish to harm anyone. Which I assume it wasn’t?”

The eldest vampire in the group, the one Buffy assumed was the leader of the nest by his position at the head of the grave, and by the far more comprehensive fizzies he was sending over her body to compete with Spike’s, eyed her briefly, gaze glittering with combination of dislike and uncertainty. After a moment… “Diego!” he spat.

A much younger and far more retiring sort of vamp stepped forward, and ‘Diego’? Really? What were the odds? 

Diego had longish, dark hair that waved around his head in a slight, shining way, a small goatee, and dark gray eyes that seemed fathomless. He moved hesitantly out of his circle of nest-mates to meet them, halted about five steps shy. “I… met him,” the vamp informed them in heavily-accented English. “At a bar. He was _muy enfermo_ *... but so very beautiful. We spoke, then… and again, another night. And again, and…” The gray eyes closed. “His _familia_ , they had given up hope. He had been removed from the list of those who would be salvaged, in this human life. Lucero, he begged me…” And the fathomless eyes opened on theirs again; on Buffy’s, specifically. She saw the humanity still extant around the edges of the demon in this one; in the liquid pain there, in his eyes. “He knew, somehow, what I was. He guessed. So, when… When he asked… I could not say no, and see him gone from the world. Not one such as he, who was so lovely…” A short, pained breath escaped the vampire. _“Tan lindo, tan radiante, tan precioso_ *... It was against the laws of my…” He turned to his leader, expression agonized.

“He has broken our laws, _Asesina_ ,” the head of this nest informed her quietly. “In most times, I would permit you to end him. But he is needed, to care for his young. And the family who has lost this one… would have lost him anyway. We had thought to deal with this among ourselves. And, of course, if the childe is found not to have been trained properly by this one… Well, then.” A flip of the hand, as if consigning both Diego and his hapless scion to dust.

/Oh, wow./ Buffy was being asked to stand by, and permit this vampire, who had sired someone out of love, to keep him, and care for him; to let him go on into this unlife, within the questionable care of his new nest, and _god_ , this was so much to take in. “You will… make sure that he doesn’t kill?” Buffy asked, fighting against everything inside of herself that screamed to destroy the fledge when it rose. She could feel him down there, already; awakening, stirring, striving to the surface beneath the waiting feet of his new family. It was a massive battle against her every instinct to stand where she was, unmoving, and listen to this… education and care plan, while the mindless infant scrabbled to the surface only inches from her waiting stake. 

/Moment of truth. That’s what this is. Do you really mean it, Buffy? Believe it? Believe in what Spike told you when you were heading across Europe; what he showed you when he said he wasn’t what Angelus made him, that he didn’t have to become…/

“If Diego’s childe does not follow our rules, and exposes us, Diego must destroy that which he has made.”

Diego’s expression took on a cast of such agony that it was like he had been hollowed out face-first. 

“If Diego does not do so, his sire will perform the necessary destruction, and will also destroy Diego in turn…” A faint twitch of something that might have been emotion crossed the elder vampire’s face. “Much as it will pain him to do so. Diego was trained properly. He knows how he must control the one he has made.”

A short, sharp, pained nod from a silent Diego.

Buffy remembered Spike’s words from not so long ago, in a borrowed bus, somewhere in approximately Poland. _“Wouldn’t be yours to do. Sire manages his childe. Fledge doesn’t do what the sire says, that fledge is dust. End of.”_ /Oh./ Tearing her eyes away from the anxious, agonized Diego, so filled with self-doubt and awareness of the trap into which he had placed himself, she lifted her eyes to the leader of the nest. “And Diego’s sire has agreed to this as well?” she asked, softly. 

The nest-sire reached out with one long arm, ran the backs of his fingers caressingly down over Diego’s stark, tight cheek. “It would pain him to do it, but he knows what he has wrought. That he made a vampire who is exceedingly driven by his emotions; _muy sentimental_. It is why I chose him; to warm my dead heart, after the loss of another. He gave me comfort; I, who have been in this world for too many years to count. But now, now he has used his _corazon suave*_ to make a difficult decision for us both. I regret what it may force us all to do.” And the hard, factual voice dropped to something almost… affectionate, if regretful. _“Mi Diego…”_

Diego’s features softened slightly, then something seemed to tear in him, and he hardened. _“No te deceptcionare, mi creador.”*_

The elder vampire dropped his hand away. “I know that you will not _. Ahora. Preparate. Ha llegado el momento.”*_

They weren’t kidding. Every vampire around the circle had gone taut with expectation. Diego was visibly vibrating, now, staring down at the soil beneath his feet. Buffy could practically hear the dirt moving, and bore down hard enough on Spike’s arm to leave nail-gouges in his flesh as she stopped breathing. He made no complaint; simply covered her hand with his own to help stay her impulses. This was not their court. The situation would be decided by a jury of peers.

And then a hand erupted from the loam within the circle.

To Buffy’s amazement, Diego bent to catch the seeking hand, drew his childe up, out of the red-dun soil. Lucero came up, blinking and confused, to stare at the vampire who had handed him up out of the terror of blinding dark and pressure and endlessness that was digging your way out of your grave, oh god, such a terrible parody of birth…

“Diego?” the infant vampire whispered.

_“Bienvenido de nuevo, querido,”_ Diego answered, as softly, and drew him closer. _“Tendras hambre, si? Ven; aqui hay comida para ti.”*_ And he lightly caressed the young man’s face. 

The all-the-time demon-face of a fledge faded out briefly, let the boy show through. It must be said that, even with the dirt flaking from his hair and eyebrows, Buffy could see what had entranced Diego. Lucero was a lovely young man; maybe around nineteen, with full eyebrows and lips and a long, patrician nose. He also had a torn dress shirt beneath his filthy suit-jacket… and a vivid weal in the shape of a cross burned into his pale, drained chest. /Oh. He was probably Catholic. His family probably buried him with a crucifix or a rosary on…/ Buffy had seen that a few times back in Sunnydale; vamps born with cross-shapes burned into their flesh, clothes torn asunder as they’d awoken to sizzling flesh, torn aside the source of painful stimuli with no real recognition of what was causing it, while in the midst of the morass of confusion that was awakening in their own graves, roaring, as Spike had put it, with new life and a vast hunger. 

She wondered, incidentally, what happened if someone had a cross tattoo. Did it just evaporate out of your skin, all burn-y, or what? Something to ask Spike later, and why had she never thought of that? 

Before them, childe and sire were locked in one another’s eyes, the intensity between them almost embarrassing to Buffy. _“La major sangre…”*_ Diego lured, drawing his creation toward the head of his new nest, where the sire of their small band had arms spread, awaiting him.

Lucero was turning away, though, from the headstone where stood a vessel holding, Buffy imagined, blood to make up his first meal, to take the edge off his fledgling hunger. He hissed, nostrils flaring, game face abruptly snapping back into place. 

He had heard a heartbeat, or smelled fresh, tasty Slayer blood, and damn. /Look at me, messing up what they had going here./ “Shoot. Sorry,” Buffy called. “Crap.” 

Diego didn’t even remotely hesitate. His fist swung, caught his progeny with a hard right cross to the cheek. Lucero went down like a sack of hams, ate dirt right on his own disrupted grave, sprawling at the feet of his would-be nestmates while they stood in judgment. _“Comeras lo que te doy de comer, y solo tanto como yo te doy de comer, o moriras!”*_

/Well, damn./ It had been so unexpected that Buffy found herself staring, amazed. The sharp chastisement, the command… No wiggle-room about it; ‘You’ll eat what I give you to eat, and only what I give you to eat, or you will die’… Just, dang.

The young vampire was pushing himself up to his hands and knees, spitting dirt. Diego, though, wasn’t finished. _“Ahora levántate y acércate a mí. De rodillas.”*_

Okay, Diego really wasn’t kidding around. “He really has to approach him on his knees?” she asked Spike, more than a little thrown.

“Best if he swears fealty now, to each of them. He’ll be a minion to everyone in the nest, since he’s junior to all of them. He’ll approach the nest-sire last. Then, maybe, if he’s bloody well lucky, they’ll let the poor blighter have his meal, take the edge off. By then the shite’ll be cold. But then he’ll be bound; to more’n just Diego, there. Have to follow commands from every one of the sods. Keep him obeying, if he wants to go off half-cocked. Do a better job keeping him feeding the way they want him to, till he gets over the first few months of fledge-hungers.”

The hapless infant was crawling on his knees back to Diego. Diego caressed his face lightly, then held out a hand. The filthy young vampire bit into the meaty edge of Diego’s hand, eyes blazing up at him, amber and full of the same kind of belief and wholehearted adoration that a puppy gave to a new master. He didn’t have to say anything, and neither did Diego. Buffy knew a one-sided minion-bond when she saw one.

No commands were spoken, after that; or at least, no audible ones. After Diego, Lucero waited, on his knees and oddly quiescent, as each vampire in the ‘family’ walked past him and held out a hand to be sniffed, bitten there, at the heel; as the newest member of the nest tendered his fealty to his family from lowest-ranking member all the way up, with Diego passing him somewhere along the middle of the pack to lay a hand on his cheek and walk on by. 

Then, last but not least, Lucero turned on his knees to face the nest’s leader, who approached him slowly, held out an imperious hand. Lucero bowed his head, snuffled low, nuzzled for a long moment into the nest-sire’s palm. Beside Buffy, Spike made a strange, low, guttural sound as the fledgling made his minion-bond with the master of his nest, and was gifted with a decent-sized jar of blood to tide him over for a while. Buffy thought she felt something slide through the bond between herself and her love; something almost… envious.

Curious as to what was getting to her mate, she turned to him, a question in her eyes. He shook his head. “Later, pet.”

“Okay,” she answered, and turned back to the oddly operatic tableau there under the moonlight. 

The local vampires had shifted. Now apparently under control and quiescent, Lucero was on his feet, had moved to stand beside his sire, still and patient and no longer even in game face, and apparently ready to wait until he was next told what to do, and wow. Spike wasn’t kidding about this being a totally different system than she had witnessed over and over again, wash-rinse-repeat, back on the hellmouth. /Maybe… baby vampires really can be controlled, if they aren’t born on the gateway to an all-powerful evil. Huh. Who knew?/

Kind of wild to realize that maybe she had had to stake so many as-yet-blameless sociopaths-in-training merely because of an accident in geography. As Spike would say, poor blighters. They’d never had a chance.

Under Buffy’s fascinated gaze, the unusually civic-minded (or at least very invested in their privacy) vampires actually scuffled the open grave back into some semblance of ‘undisturbed’ before they headed back into town. Buffy and Spike trailed them over toward the docks, keeping back some fifty or so feet to give the fledge some distance from her scent and heartbeat, though he seemed under almost preternatural control right now. The whole troupe hung a left at the Farmacia, and slipped one-by-one into the man-door of a small dockside warehouse that appeared, to Buffy’s eyes, to hold, maybe, crates of alcohol for the local bars. They sidled in after the nest, past the cavernous, darkened area that was the truck-door, and Buffy caught the edge of her guy’s duster, prepared to follow Spike’s vampire-eyes deeper into the gloom. 

Somewhere deep in the center of the warehouse, the nest had their space. Lucero was there, curled in against Diego, who was absently stroking the new addition to the family; caressing his hair, the back of his neck; steadying his fledge with very physical reminders of his presence, and of Diego's place within the political hierarchy. It kind of reminded her a little bit of a wolf pack or something, or those hyena kids back in high school, the way the vamp-family behaved around their new infant. It was visible pack-dynamics; all touch, smell, visceral and instinctive, to see the way the rest of the nest reclined, or stood, or sat, all around the new infant, as if they were, every one of them, intensely aware of his presence with every sense awake and trained on him. At least three or four of the members remained in physical contact with their newest member at any moment; touching a foot or a hand or the small of his back. Reassurance, restraint, reminder. 

Identity.

He belonged.

At Buffy’s side, Spike was conspicuously silent, but something in him was building, as he watched the tableau; something powerful and nameless. She needed to speak fast and get him out of here, see what was making him so edgy about all of this. She thought she knew, but… Well, she had her own reasons to be on edge right now, and best to dispatch those first and get that part over with before she dealt with her own vampire and his well-deserved issues.

Buffy held back as far as she could, waiting till the group was all settled in, before stepping forward a half-pace in front of Spike. “I’m not in the business of interfering in anyone’s daily lives anymore unless it becomes necessary to keep the peace. I’m retired, as you’ve no doubt all learned by now, and I prefer to keep it that way. In fact, I would like to thank you, for allowing me to witness your…” She hesitated, seeking the right words. “Um, rebirthing and welcome ceremony. I know my presence added an unnecessary complication, and that you did not have to allow me to remain. But I must say that compared to sirings I saw on a hellmouth, this was… very civilized, and gives me hope that fledglings can be managed, which is something I did not believe possible before now. So.” She pulled in a hard, deep breath. “Since the boy was going to die anyway, and because I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, to be willing to do anything at all to keep them…” Her eyes flickered briefly to the tense Diego. “I’ll stay hands off, as long as he stays under control, and there are no mistakes. But I expect that if there are…”

“If the childe kills, he is forfeit. If Diego does not comply with our laws, Diego, too, is forfeit.” The nest’s leader eyed her coolly. “I will admit, _Asesina_ , I would not mind, in that case, if you chose to perform that last service in my stead. It would be less painful _por mi_. But I do not shirk my duty. I will do as is needed, without the necessity of your intercession.”

And that, there, was a polite, if firm, ‘butt out, we don’t need you, we can manage our own people’. /Fine. As long as we understand each other./

Still, she was glad she knew where they lived, and nodded genially as they bowed their way out. But, before they left the main space, Buffy turned to Diego. “I hope, for both your sakes, that he remembers enough of who he was.”

Diego’s eyes were dark and troubled on hers. “This too, I hope,” he answered.

Spike’s hand, on her arm, spasmed slightly as they pivoted to depart.

All through the long walk back to their beach, he remained silent, till finally she slid her fingers up along his forearm, under the edge of the duster, to bring his attention back to her; back out of, she thought, probably the past. “You envy the kid… why? Because the nest seems so functional? Or because…”

The fingers of his off-hand twitched in his pocket; fumbling with his pack of cigarettes as he considered a smoke, discarded the thought. He looked away, over at the moon. “The nest’s sire? Name’s Calderon. He sired the lad Diego out of love, so that’s what Diego knows. He’s carried on the tradition with this one. And obviously this lot have got proper rearing, here, off a bloody hellmouth. And it all makes me wonder…” His face tightened a little. “What’s my nest’s excuse, then?”

Her fingers tightened around his wrist. /Oh, Spike…/

“I mean… was it just… Old Batface was obviously mad as a sodding hatter. Maybe he just passed it right the fuck on down? He had delusions of grandeur; wanted to turn all humans into some sort of bleeding assembly line, produce breeding cows and blood production barns and all other sorts of insane rot. Maybe he made Darla mad—and, she had soddin’ syphilis when she was turned, so no doubt she was already a bit off her bloody nut—and then she passed it on to Liam, picked a right fucking prick to do it to. And he went out of his way to find a fucking nutter to turn, my poor Dru, made her even crazier, stuck another demon in her to complete the job…”

“Spike.”

His eyes turned to hers, bright in the moonlight, and then he was staring hard, down the path, stalking furiously ahead. “I tried to go mad a few times, Buffy. Thought maybe if I could just manage it, like the rest of the family, it could all make more sense, and I might have less trouble with the bit where there was…”

She jogged up to catch his hand, pulled him hard; back to her. “Where there was no love.” /Oh, God./ She hurt for him. God, she hurt for him. “But that wasn’t your fault.” /And I hate that for so long you thought it was. That you internalized it; thought that there was something about you that was unlovable. That I added to that. That we all did, because…/ “Spike, it was because you were a square peg in a round hole, okay? Drusilla broke the cycle of your family and picked someone who _wasn’t_ crazy. Someone who was good, and strong, and decent, and who would always keep his word. Because that was what she _needed_. And no matter what they tried to do over a hundred and twenty years, they couldn’t break you.” She cupped his face, smiled into his eyes. “They couldn’t break you, because demons don’t change, no matter how hard he tried, do they? Or good men…”

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then opened on hers, glowing blue and lambent on hers. “Oh, bloody hell, Love.”

“I’m sorry, though,” she whispered, and turned her hand to brush the backs of her fingers over his cheek, down his jaw, his neck. It really wasn’t fair, after all. What he’d been denied, for so long. What he had only found now, in the last year, here, with her. Because she could see it; what had happened there, in that nest, and with Diego and Lucero. She could see the echoes of it between them, recognized them, now, with the new perspective of a person who had been bound up, for a year, with a vampire. She could see and read nest dynamics a lot better now than she ever could have before, and…

There was a lot there, between that new sire and his fledge, that echoed in what she and Spike did, and had done, once upon a time, when they had been engaging in their past, much more painful relationship, and… And in what they had now. Things that Spike hadn’t gotten in his first, much more painful mockery of a nest. /But you can have it now, with me. We’ll make our own version, okay? You and me./ “Let’s go home,” she told him softly. He had been too silent, through all of that. It had hurt him, to watch. He would need a lot of loving tonight. “Let me take care of you.”

“Buffy…” he murmured, and he was trying hard to scoff, to blow it off, to sound untouched and just fine about it all. Unbothered by the sight of a properly-reared fledge with a present and loving sire amidst a present and engaged, supportive nest. 

He wasn’t pulling it off in the slightest. “Don’t be a dope,” she informed him, and grabbed his arm. “C’mon.” And she escorted him back to where they were building their own.

When he followed her, it was the way he had always done. Utterly grateful to be hers.

And god; that made her just about the luckiest creature in the world, didn’t it, that he had given himself to her?

***

“It really is that different, huh?”

“Hmmm?”

She trailed her fingers over his chest, pensive. “You weren’t sired on a hellmouth. Clearly it’s a lot different. You must’ve had more control than they did, in your first few nights…”

He snorted. “Depends on what’s modeled to you, pet.”

/Well, there is that./ “But… it really makes that much difference, doesn’t it.”

He pushed himself up on his elbow, regarded her with a strange, pointed light in his eyes. “Don’t you feel it in us, here, how different it was then? Was like a drug for me, comin’ there. Felt like takin’ a hit of cocaine or some such shite, each time I came back to that soddin’ town. I was riding high, wanted to fight and fuck and fight some more. And every time I saw you…” He lifted his eyebrows, waggled them lasciviously… then trailed off to look thoughtful. “It feels a bit different, here, off that bleedin’ thing. I still have… urges. We both know I always will; but that place turned ‘em up to a hundred.” His eyes on hers went assessing. “Can’t tell me slaying doesn’t feel different to you, off of it, as well.” 

She blinked, considering it, realized he was right. It really did. She felt uncomfortable, out here in the world, now that she wasn’t killing every night, which, to be honest, was something that would have absolutely horrified her to admit to herself a few years back. That she had a need to cause violence and draw blood built into her. She could admit it now; that she needed those things, and that she had maybe painted herself into a corner here, in this relatively quiet life. That maybe the outlets of sparring and training and sex—no matter the kink level—might not be enough. 

That slay up in El Ejido had shown her that much. The relief of it—of finally having a kill, after so long quiescent, here—had been beyond overwhelming, the letting off of the charge, phenomenal. She was part-demon, made to slaughter, and there would need to be an outlet for that in her life, somehow, soon, or she’d go slowly crazy. Which put her into some very uncomfortable, but very real and intimate realizations about the nature of self, and of her mate. 

She understood Spike, now. What he held under wraps… and what he had, for her, since before the soul. And they would have to do something about it, soon, before things went bad. But…

He had a point, too. It was, luckily, different here. The Slayers who had been stationed off of hellmouths, like Nikki Wood… Maybe they had had time for extracurriculars (like, apparently, having a kid). The demons would have been different, and so would she. Because out here, in the world, Buffy felt a great deal less revved up, less overwhelmed, less caught up in some sort of nightly combine; even when she had been slaying more often back in the Organization. There had been less of a driving urge, off of the hellmouth, and yeah; she had been depressed, sure, but things had functioned more like she was a metronome. Like she was performing a nine-to-five task, something to be completed for the sake of duty. Like she was punching a card. 

So very different, since even when she had been living from night to night by rote, after her resurrection, still, each slay had filled her with that familiar, visceral… 

Well. Back on the hellmouth, the act of slaying had given her such a surge of power and energy that it had even offset the fact that she had barely had time to sleep, that sometimes in there she hadn’t been able to afford food, that often she was injured or exhausted or majorly depressed or drowning in post-traumatic stress and simply reeling from one crisis to the next nine nights out of ten. The roaring adrenaline rush of a hard, fast slay could still get her off despite all that, drive her to the next battle, and the next, and another again, when nothing else made her feel alive, and, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Spike answered softly, and lifted a pointed brow at her before resettling himself back to the bed. “Damn thing affected you, me; us all. Made Red go dark, made you a bit of a junkie in your own way, turned me into your willin’ slave…”

“That’s right, blame the hellmouth…” Her jocular tone belied her emotions. She was still feeling a tiny bit stung, thrown… maybe even concerned. /Was that why I was so out of it for so long after the First? Like everything just felt so… blah? Because I was addicted to the high of the hellmouth, and then it was gone, and I was…/

He chuckled, stroked her arm. “I’ll be your methadone, baby.”

“Oh my God.”

He slid out from under her, turned over to look into her eyes. “Not saying that was all of it. Soddin’ place was all you’d fought to save, and it got ripped away from you anyway. And, apparently you also had some sort of attachment to me, which might’ve had a little to do with your feelin’ a bit sad about watchin’ it go up…”

“Oh, maybe just a little…” Buffy answered snarkily, and rolled her eyes with high drama, considered punching him hard on the arm for the self-depreciating humor.

He lowered his head, nuzzled her breastbone a little, lifted to catch her gaze again. “Put that together, though, with comin’ down from the high that was probably the only thing that kept you going for the better part of seven years, and you were bound to feel like the whole bloody world had crashed in on you. Amazing you made it out of all that intact.”

“Yeah, well…” Buffy tried for a nonchalant shrug, aware that it wouldn’t be all that convincing. “I didn’t, really.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” He kissed her over her heart, lowered himself back to her side. “Kinda have a theory, any road, that maybe Slayers are bound to the hellmouths they guard. Biorhythm-wise. You have boyfriend trouble, the hellmouth sends you a big bleedin’ moral conundrum. You have school stress—midterms or finals or the like—you get an apocalypse as well. The business with Mum… why not also have to deal with that bitch, Glory.” A faintly ironic expression touched his face, and he shrugged slightly, looked away a little. “Too busy dealing with life itself? Hellmouth takes another tack, and regular life is the thing that comes at you; just a bunch of soddin’ idiot kids with delusions of grandeur.” 

She was staring at him now, amazed and mildly horrified, because what even? He ignored her expression to lift a hand to her cheek, and cocked his brows pointedly, humor returning to quirk his lips with a teasing air. “You have bad bloody cramps that day, there’s a soddin’ vamp attack on your school…”

“Oh my God,” she reiterated, mildly aghast. She had absolutely, utterly forgotten, until that instant, what he had said when she had been crawling through the ductwork of the ceiling above him, but… /Oh my God, _seriously_ , Spike?/ She hadn’t even _registered_ , back then, what he had been getting at, which meant that, till now… Well, for one thing, holy crap, that had been so incredibly long ago, she had definitely not remembered until he brought it up that she had been on her period when they’d met. But clearly he absolutely did, which… “I can’t _believe_ you remember that!”

He grinned at her like a shark in the gloom. “You don’t bloody well think I’d forget _that_ , do you? You were like fighting a soddin’ confection.”

Absolutely convinced he was both the biggest idiot on the entire planet, and obscurely, very weirdly touched that he remembered something so… creepily personal and detailed about their first meeting, like it was some sort of ‘remembering everything about your anniversary’ kind of thing, she exhaled hard in exasperation. “God, you’re such a vampire. Ugh. And also, I think your theory is a major stretch.” For one thing, it would be even worse karma than all the undeserved kismet she already had to deal with because of her Calling, which, irony much? /It’s bad enough to have to deal with monsters and apocalypses without thinking that my moods line up with my home base and _trigger_ the stupid things! Or, like, vice-versa. Just, no./

“Well…” He shrugged. “No way to test it now, see if it works the other way.” He nudged her lightly with his nose, buried his face in her neck. “Slayer happy and in love for a bloody change; would the soddin’ thing settle down and give you some peace?”

_“Definitely_ think that’s a stretch,” she informed him softly, and lifted a hand to the back of his head, to keep him pressed there in the place where he loved to snuffle long and deep of her scent. Then, mind wandering back to what she had witnessed tonight, and to what Willow was looking into for them, and to things her vampire had said to her in the past… “Spike?”

“Mmmm…”

“If you… ever wanna have a baby… I’ll be there for you.”

He absolutely froze. Stopped breathing. Everything. And he remained that way—utterly still—for so long that she thought maybe she’d said something wrong, or broken him or something. Horrified him, maybe. No real way to tell, since even the _feel_ of him was still and silent. 

When he finally lifted his head away, though, slowly and carefully and after a significantly long period of time, his eyes on hers were wide, unguarded… and flat-out amazed. “Buffy, what the bloody hell?” he whispered, and his tones were… 

Wow. He sounded shaken to his core. Beyond shocked. And what she felt from him now was something trembling and tenuous and ambivalent; like he wasn’t entirely sure what to feel. “I’m just saying. I get it now. What you didn’t get, when you were, you know… growing up. That’s not the right term, but you know what I mean. What you’ve never gotten to do. And I mean, I get that need to maybe revisit it someday, now you know what it doesn’t _have_ to be, you know? Especially now you know _I_ know what it doesn’t have to be. And… I believe in you. That you could do it right, or whatever. I mean, I personally don’t feel the need to do a redo myself, for how I grew up, for reasons, but if you ever…”

“Slayer. Why the bloody hell should I want a retread of that sort of ground, if you don’t?”

She looked away, avoided his eyes. “Because it’s not the same thing. Your reason would be because you wouldn’t want to put a fledge through the same kind of pain; the feeling of being in a one-sided relationship. I… I would actually fear a kid, if I had one. Maybe even hate them, but definitely never let myself get close, because they’d represent everything that terrifies me. Everything in me, everything I’ve ever done wrong…” Her eyes lifted to his. “And nothing you did to raise a fledge would break us up, but somewhere deep inside of me, kids—human kids—mean divorce and separation and losing everything.”

He stared at her. “Buffy, what the hell.” It came out differently this time; pained, for her sake.

She shrugged again, well aware that he would think that sounded insane. That her assertion that nothing he could do with a fledge could compare to her fears over regular baby-makin’, when she knew how vampires related to their fledglings… But she kind of thought that Spike could accomplish just about anything if he wanted to, vamp-wise, whereas her own faith in her child-rearing skills was nil. “I know it isn’t, I guess, rational, but here’s the thing, Spike. For me? I burned down my school. The cops showed up, wanted to try me as an adult. It scared the hell out of my parents, so they agreed to put me in a mental hospital where I was too strong for the restraints, so they drugged me to the gills; to the point where I couldn’t even tell what was real anymore. To where the restraints worked and I didn’t even know which way was up. That was why that horrible thing with the Kashma’nik was so terrifying for me; because it was so very possible, in my mind, that I just ended up staying there, and all this—our whole life together, my life since, all of it—might just be in my head. Just like they told me all of it was… because that’s what they all they told me. I made it all up, I was having some kind of puberty-induced psychotic break…”

“Buffy…” His voice, his heart ached for her.

She pushed it off, bit her lip, shook her head. “I know I’m the reason my parents got divorced. And even though I know technically Dawn didn’t exist then, I also carry the guilt over knowing that I’m the reason she lost her dad, her family, too, at such a young age; because Dad was scared of me, didn’t want to be around me anymore. Mom and Dad were having problems, sure… but he didn’t leave till I got Called. That’s what drove him away…”

There was a flurry of sheets, and he was sitting up to regard her in denial. “Oh, that’s bullshit, Buffy! If the man couldn’t stand up with his women, be there for his daughter… Fine excuse to go get his prick wet somewhere else because he wanted to shag his secretary, and because he didn’t want to put out the effort to come back and spend the time, so he felt it was alright to break your hearts, over and bloody over again…”

Buffy sighed, lifted her fingers to his lips to quiet him. He would always be, one hundred percent on her side. She knew he hated her father, just on principle and without ever having met the man; for deserting her mother. For never even trying to come back to help with Dawn after they both died. For all of it; and honestly, she couldn’t blame him for that, but… “He was terrified,” she whispered, breaking into his ferocious diatribe. “He was scared… of _me_.”

“Buffy…” His heart was now visibly breaking for her. She could see it in his eyes, even if she couldn't have felt it.

“I broke up our family, Spike,” she informed him, and fought not to let the tears fall. “You have to know… for me, the entire thought of having a kid is absolutely terrifying. A kid would be like… this time-bomb. I’d look at one and all I’d see is this clock, ticking away, waiting to destroy everything we have, everything we’ve built between us. Because I was what destroyed my family.”

His eyes fell shut briefly, and when they opened again, she saw the wetness there, for her sake. “Oh, bloody hell,” he whispered, voice rough. “Christ, Buffy; you’ve internalized some sort of mad trauma, but you can’t look at every child and think…”

She shrugged it off, lifted her eyes to his. “Of course, you’re different. You wouldn’t leave if you were flayed. I already did flay you, more or less, and you’re still here, because you’re insane. But there’s also the whole ‘kids as blackmail’ angle. We’ve already lived through that with Dawn. So, you know. Like I already told you. For me, the re-do angle is not so much my thing. But for you, maybe…”

Spike sighed. His eyes darted away, warily, to settle somewhere over her shoulder, his body now set and tense. “Well, for one thing, I spent a whole soddin’ century takin’ care of my sire. Not sure I’d want the responsibility, again, of takin’ care of another vamp…” 

That facet of things honestly hadn’t occurred to her. “Oh. Right.” She really did want to understand. What he had been feeling, watching that nest. Watching the new couple, which... “And… you lived through all that pain with her, for that whole century. I know you might not want to put another baby vamp through it. That one-sided affection thing.”

Spike shrugged slightly; a movement more felt than seen, in the gloom. “There’re ways to do it where the childe doesn’t feel second-bloody-best all the soddin’ time. You can have, for lack of a better term, polyamorous relationships where the other person knows that even if they’re not your primary, they’re still very much loved, in their own way. Hell. I knew Dru loved me, and we were mad for each other, had a torrid enough affair to keep me goin’ for over a bloody century’s devotion. I won’t say I’d take any of it back. And obviously that lad Diego feels plenty for his get, whatever he’ll always feel for his sire, so… It isn’t that.” He frowned at her, expression oddly pensive. “Not sure as I’d see you lettin’ me have that sort of relationship with just anyone else, though. You know the sort of relationship sires tend to have with fledges…”

Buffy found herself oddly unshaken, at least in theory. “You’re mine,” she announced, without fanfare. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Well, hell.” He sounded kind of stunned by her flat pronouncement.

She grinned at him and poked at his shoulder. “Though, to be fair, I’d probably have an easier time if it was a guy, not a chick…”

He rolled his eyes at her. “You know the only reason you’re even able to discuss this is because it’s theoretical, right? If it wasn’t a hypothetical, you’d be going up in bloody flames, pet. You ‘bout had a conniption when I shared a soddin’ _cigarette_ with Faith, much less…”

Buffy smiled serenely. “That’s a much longer story.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Tell that to her. You know, don’t you, that the whole reason she ended in leaving was because she was angling for a spot in our bed, and when you didn’t offer, she decided it was too frustrating hanging about, what with the sparring and all, decided to go somewhere else where she could get her kicks with less wishful thinking involved…”

Buffy lifted up on one elbow to stare at him in amazement. “Oh, for God’s sake. Are you still on that…” 

He caught her gaze and held it stoically, eyes boring into hers and demanding she face the situation with frank honesty. Buffy frowned inwardly, reassessing Faith’s recent stay with new eyes; the way she’d sparred with the both of them, then watched them for a while afterward as if waiting for something before grabbing up her jacket and heading out to go do what—or who—ever. The consistent, low-grade, across-the-board flirting, like an open door… “Oh. Crap.”

“Only just now catching on, is it?” Spike’s eyes were twinkling as he read her belated discomfort.

“Oh, shut up.” /Oh, man…/ That was so not a door she had ever quite imagined walking through. Did Faith _really_ think…

“See?” Spike needled, and lay back once more. “And here you are saying you’d not mind it the other way round. Rot, I say.” He scoffed loudly. “Faith, bleedin’ Anya…”

Okay, maybe he had a point. “Whatever.” Buffy had an agenda here, though best if he didn’t see it before she was done. Best to focus on the… the 'parenting' portion of things, and not that other part of the conversation. “Hypothetically, I think there’s, like, two kinds of good parents; the ones who are good because they had it good themselves… and the ones who are good because they know what _not_ to do, you know?” When he blinked at her, utterly thrown by her chill discussion of the matter, she shrugged offhandedly again and looked away, trying for nonchalant. “And I know there’s a connection there that I couldn’t give you, and maybe you need to experience that, someday. And, I just…” She held her breath briefly, but, okay. In for a penny, right? “I want you to know that if you need other connections to the world, or whatever, I’m not, like, against that, or…”

Spike’s hand flew up to halt her, eyes abruptly narrowed. His curious expression hardened, and he got all suspicious, like he’d smelled a rat. Dammit. “Now I see where you’re comin’ from,” he growled. “What the motivation is.” 

/Damn, dammit…/ She looked away, frustrated at being caught out.

Her actions confirmed his suspicions, of course, and he sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, utterly deflated. “Christ.” And then both arms were out, and he’d grabbed her shoulders, shook her a little; dragged her close to get right in her face. “Look. I get why you’re sayin’ this, Slayer. In case this business doesn’t pan out. What Red’s lookin’ into. You want me to have someone to hold me here, so I don’t dust without you.” 

Buffy couldn’t quite meet his eyes. /Fuck./

His face set. A low growl touched the edges of his voice. “Won’t work, Love. I lose you, feel you leave the claim, I’m goin’ right after you, and you bloody well know it.”

She could hide nothing from him. _Damn_ him. “Not if you’re responsible for someone,” she heard herself insist into the air sort of midway between them, and damn him, she still couldn’t meet his fierce gaze. “Not if you have…” /Shit./ “You’re not Angel. You don’t abandon the people who depend on you. And when you had Dawn…” He gave her another little shake, and now she met his eyes, fiercely defensive. “And anyway, that… It’s like us. It’s _blood_ , and…”

“It wouldn’t be enough,” he informed her flatly. “Fledge, after the first year, would be fine. And I’d not stay for that one. Not without you.” One firm jerk of his head, his mouth a tight slash in a bleak face. “Dawn’s one thing. But…”

She nodded, looking down; giving in. “It wasn’t just that.” She needed him to know that. “I really meant what I said. If you wanted the experience, I really do trust you to do it. And I would help.”

After a moment he accepted what she was saying at face value, relaxed with a sigh. “‘Preciate that, Buffy. ‘Preciate the vote of confidence. I’ll let you know if I suddenly get the urge to start makin’ little vamps.”

She managed a smile at his ironic tone. “Good to know.”

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  


muy enfermo = very ill

Tan lindo, tan radiante, tan precioso = how beautiful, how radiant, how precious...

corazon suave = soft heart

No te deceptcionare, mi creador = I will not disappoint you, my creator.

Ahora. Preparate. Ha llegado el momento = Now, prepare yourself. The moment has come.

Bienvenido de nuevo, querido = Welcome back, my dear   
  
Tendras hambre, si? Ven; aqui hay comida para ti = You will be hungry, yes? Come, here is food for you.  
  
La major sangre… = the best blood  
  
Comeras lo que te doy de comer, y solo tanto como yo te doy de comer, o moriras! = You will eat what I feed you, and only so much as I feed you, or you will die!  
  
Ahora levántate y acércate a mí. De rodillas = Now get up and come closer to me. On your knees.

  
Next week, we get the results of Wil's research, to finally lift the cloud of uncertainty from our anxious couple.   
Thank you all so much!!! 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go; finally, the answer to the Slayer-longevity question.   
> Also, Willow has the beginnings of an adventure.
> 
> This is mostly snuggles and warm-fuzzies. 
> 
> Now I must be off to try to find time to answer all you lovely people, in between locating hours to work on the three or ten fics on which I'm way behind in production! AUGH. (Why is this freaking ship so inspirational, anyway?)

A few days later, they got word from Wil that she was on her way with news. Buffy set aside her phone and rose from the couch to poke her head in the door of the poker room. Gris and Rinne were in there, playing some complex demon-card-game they had never taught to anyone else; one that involved a lot of hissing and slapping. “Hey all. Incoming,” she warned them as she passed, interrupting the teeth-bared concentration of the two combatants.

Gris looked up, one hand poised over the cards in her other palm, looking prepared to sling one out into her sister’s face. “Who?” she asked, interested. 

“My friend Willow.”

Rinne sat back from her leaned-in, tense position, distracted from the game. _“Lo siento, mami, ella es mucho mas interesante que tu.*_ I’m out.”

/Who is more interesting than what?/

Before Buffy could inquire, Spike slouched in from the bedroom, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Red’s coming?” 

“Yeah.” Buffy made a face at his expression. “Sorry to interrupt your nap…”

He waved a hand, looking suddenly far more alert. “She figure things out?”

“I think maybe.”

“Hmm.” He was abruptly thrumming with cautious excitement. “Any coffee left?”

Rinne had tossed her cards down on the table. “This the witch with the big mojo, right?” 

“Yeah, the one who was here a couple of times recently, and who fought…” Buffy cut off when Rinne exchanged glances with Gris, who flung up a hand, tossed aside her own cards… And then something remarkable happened. The two viridian demon-women leaned into one another… and started playing ‘rock, paper, scissors’. At each loss, one of them cursed or scowled, looking deeply pained. 

Finally, Rinne won two out of three. Gris groaned. “Fine, _mija_. When you strike out, I’m in.”

“Not gonna strike out. Sorry, sis.” And she rose to move out of the room, sauntered into the main space to lean back indolently against the back wall. “Get lost.”

“Take you over my knee…” Gris muttered, and headed out down the hall toward the rear door.

Buffy was still trying to figure out what the hell was going on when the portal opened over by the far wall. Papers whirled off the ‘dining area’ table in response to the disruption. One of the cushions on the couch blew over to fall onto the floor, and the rough-around-the-edges plaid blanket on the back half-unfolded to tumble down into the seat of the sofa like a ghost was making use of it. One of Spike’s records fell over; one of the Pink Floyds, the one Buffy had seen everywhere in college, and which she only knew as ‘the rainbow-triangle one’ (she had honestly thought of them as ‘the rainbow-triangle band’ and thought they had had something to do with gay rights for years before her guy had taken her musical education in hand). Behind it, ACDC’s _Back In Black_ slithered askew, looking like it was going to tumble off of the narrow shelf. Spike made a sound like he was being stepped on, and leaped across the intervening space to rescue it (understandably, Buffy thought, since he had told her that one song on there was dedicated to their sex life. The ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ one, which was… flattering).

The disruptions subsided as the portal stabilized. Wil stepped through, hair blowing in her face in long, red, whipping strands, and the gateway promptly irised closed behind her. She glanced around the room, taking them in, smiled tentatively. “Hey Buffy. Hey Spike.” She waved a hand, and the remaining trails of energy dissipated. Everything in the room settled back down to station-keeping.

“Hey, Wil,” Buffy answered, as if nothing of moment had occurred. After all, this sort of thing was starting to become standard fare around here. 

“Hey, Red. You got something?”

/Way to cut to the chase, Spike./

Wil looked a little anxious. “Tentatively?” She glanced around the room again. “Um, maybe we should all sit down.”

/Okay, that could be good or bad./

Before they could head toward the nearest seats, though, Rinne broke the silence. “Hey, witch-girl.”

Willow’s head jerked around. Took in the demon-woman lounging against the wall across the room. “Oh. Hi…”

“Rinne.” A jerk of the chin. “Nice to see you again.”

Buffy blinked. Spike, though, started to grin broadly.

Willow looked a little disconcerted. “Oh. Um, yeah. I… It’s been a while…”

“Too bad.”

/Oh, wow./ Was Rinne really _hitting_ on Willow right now? Had to be, though, because sultry, much? 

Buffy could have told her friend this wasn’t going to work for her. Would have warned her off if she could. Wil didn’t really roll with the whole demon thing. Xander, yeah. Rinne would have been right up his alley, but Wil, not so much.

Wil blinked again. “Uh…” 

And then, to Buffy’s utter shock, her eyes dropped, very unsubtly to Rinne’s, um, chest, and she blushed. They bounced back north again very swiftly, but there was definite checking-outage, and, just, wow. /Wow, Wil. I never knew you had it in you./ “Uh… this is kind of a business meeting, right now…”

Rinne just shrugged a little. “Thought your friend might like a warm welcome.” And it was clear from her eyes, her stance, that the welcome was very, very warm.

Willow was very much with the blushing by now. “I… Thanks.” And then, slowly, she began to smile. It was a shy smile, but it was definitely a there thing.

Well, alright, this whole meeting thing was about to get sidetracked in a major way. Buffy opened her mouth again—not to step on anyone else’s hookup, but, like, there was a thing to discuss!—but Spike beat her to the punch. “G’wan, Corinna. Got private things to discuss. You can come back and chat up our witch later.”

Rinne smirked and unfolded from her cross-legged stance to straighten, all curves and grace. “Promise?”

Willow blushed harder.

“Alright.” Rinne jerked her chin again, in Wil’s direction. “I’ll just go out for a little walk on the beach, then.” And she headed out for the sliding glass doors, putting, Buffy noticed, a hell of a lot more sway into her walk-away than she usually did, which, just, wow. She was laying it on thick.

Also, Wil was noticing. Her eyes were all kinds of riveted on Rinne’s butt right now. Not that it was tough to do that, since the sisters both tended toward things like cutoffs, but… Well. Anyway. 

Buffy cleared her throat as their part-demon associate closed the slider behind her. “Ahem.” Turning, she led the way to the bedroom, just in case anyone else came in. It would offer more privacy for this convo, and also, maybe help Wil feel less like she was likely to be hit on at any moment. “C’mon. Let’s go back here.”

“Right.” Wil shook herself very obviously before turning to follow.

Once they’d gained the bedroom, Spike clambered right onto the bed and leaned back against the wall. Buffy sat on the edge and patted it to let Wil know she could take a seat. Wil did, gingerly, and resumed her faint dithering. “Yeah. Uh…”

Spike was grinning very broadly now from where he lounged, hands clasped behind his head. “Research,” he reminded their old friend. “Longevity and the like.”

“Right. Research.” Nodding, Wil cleared her throat and turned her head to dig into her satchel, still looking a little foggy. Spike’s amusement tolled through the bond to bounce inside Buffy, and she pondered punching his ankle to tell him to drop it. He was enjoying Rinne’s unexpected seduction-attempt way too much. 

Buffy hadn’t even realized the girls were bi. Or, whatever you called people who were into every sex and species, since she knew they also went for non-humans. Was there a classification for that?

“Dunno why you’re surprised, pet,” Spike murmured into her ear, which he could reach fairly easily where she sat at about his midsection. “They were omnivorous in Hell-A, and they’ll be omnivorous here.”

“Okay, way to make it sound like she plans on eating Wil alive…” she hissed back.

“She might. No doubt Red would enjoy that…”

“Hey, I’m right here, you know!” Wil exclaimed from the foot of the bed.

Responding to their banter-y undertones had at least brought Wil’s blushing self back into some semblance of ‘in-the-now-ness’. Glaring a little, she tugged a little notebook out of her satchel. “Let’s just stick to you two and your problems, okay, and leave me out of it?”

“Fine by me, Red,” Spike answered equably, and leaned back once more to cross his ankles.

Buffy, who felt kind of like a bad hostess, made a face. “We can leave you in it well enough to offer you juice or something. Not all of us are straight-to-business jerks,” she finished pointedly, with an elbow to the thigh for her guy, who grunted in answer. /I mean, my mom raised me better than to just put someone to work the minute they come in the door./

A faint smile flickered over Wil’s lips, and she shrugged. “No, I’m okay.” And she cracked her little notebook to a page about one-third of the way through, and cleared her throat, looking a tiny bit uncertain. “Um, okay, so here’s the thing. I found out some stuff from the blood. Like…” She looked from one to the other of them. “Slayer blood is geared, like Buffy said, toward serious cell-regeneration. Like woah. A lot of energy goes toward that. Like, crazy energy. Like, if it was anyone not a Slayer, you’d probably have cancer or something, but for you it’s adaptive. It’s probably why you’re kind of super warm all the time, Buffy. You’re like a battery…”

Spike smirked. “No one’s complaining in this house.”

Buffy threw a pillow at him. He just nodded genially in thanks and stuffed it behind himself, lounged against it for all the world as if she’d done that on purpose.

Willow blushed a little at their interaction, but only a little, and very smoothly moved on. “Anyway, we already talked about why that is, from the standpoint of reproductive theory. And that all really makes sense; down to the part where it even explains why you can ‘age out’ from being a Potential…”

“Oh!” It hit Buffy right between the eyes. “Right. Because the minute you stop regenerating and go over that hump, change to where you’re not keeping pace anymore, and start de-generating…”

“At which point you’re no longer a candidate for Slayerdom,” Wil agreed, “because the Slayer spirit, in effect, can no longer use you.”

“Okay, wow. So, what, early twenties, right?”

“Somewhere in there, probably. It depends on the person, and when their body is geared to stop saving itself and start making replacements or bust. Which is kind of dependent on genes and ancestry, and…” Wil shrugged. “Anyway, that’s kind of a sidebar. That whole thing on reproductive theory? That’s where this all goes theoretical, okay?” she prefaced.

/She’s being so careful./ Buffy was pretty much a ‘tear off the bandaid’ person. She didn’t have the patience for slow, gentle reveal. /I’m either gonna age out and die like everyone, or not, so…/ “Out with it, Wil.”

“Okay, right. So. Reproductive theory states that you protect the individual until the energy is better spent producing a replacement…”

“Sure. ‘Less you’re a vamp; then it’s about swarming, and instinctively balancing the predator-prey ratio.”

“Ew, Spike.” /That’s one way to put it, but, still. Ew./

“Just sayin’.”

Wil actually looked like she kind of liked his explanation, nodding along down there at the end of the bed. “Okay, fine. But let’s get back to the other exception, okay? For Slayers… here’s the thing. You don’t produce your replacement with your body.” She eyed Buffy bluntly. “You produce it by dying.”

Buffy faced her down and nodded easy acceptance. “Yeah.”

Willow looked relieved that there weren’t going to be any nervous breakdowns. She let out a breath, nodded back, pushed on. “So, logically, the reproductive strategy for the demon side of you is actually to keep you going as long as possible. There’s no loss in using up the energy the same way all the way through, and no payout in changing strategies mid-stream like there is for a… uh…” She hesitated.

“A full human. You can say it, Wil.” The time had long since passed when Buffy was even remotely touchy about being part-demon girl.

“Yeah. Okay, so…” Forging on, Wil caught her breath and shrugged slightly. “The thing with you being… kind of a composite being means that you can obviously, you know, reproduce like a human, too. And that’s where this gets tricky. Because, um, okay. For the demony-side of you, making a human-replacement is basically this totally illogical waste of energy, because you’re not…” She ground to an embarrassed halt again.

“Totally human anymore.” The pussyfooting around the subject was starting to irritate Buffy, actually. “So I’m really not required to propagate the species. I’m here to preserve it by protecting it, but not to make baby humans.” It was actually kind of a relief to know that she wasn’t crazy for not feeling pulled to go get pregnant or whatever. Though, to be fair, it made her wonder why she had a sex drive at all, if that was the case. 

Willow nodded kind of automatically. “Um, yeah. It’s like, this waste of energy that should be spent, you know, fixing your body after fighting, and…” This was where Wil’s voice started to do that wide-eyed huffy thing that she did when she got uncomfortable. “Well, look. The sex drive for humans has two parts. One is the whole, ‘give ‘em a reason to be into it so they’ll do it and produce more humans’ thing. But the other part, the social theory part, is the whole pair-bonding thing. The ‘the more fun they have with it, the more likely they are to do it a lot and make more babies and keep the kids alive’ thing… And when it comes to women, there’s just a whole lot more than that.”

/Now we’re getting somewhere./ Buffy leaned forward, interested. Spike, she noticed, did so as well. /Connoisseur/ she thought fondly.

“There’s a lot of theories on that, to do with social networking and stuff that goes all the way back to how bonobos relate to each other, you know, ‘keep the pack alive and running smooth, because it benefits the pack’s mutual slew of kids’ and I’m not gonna get into all that, but basically… Guys are wired to get the package off first and to bond second. Girls are wired to get the package off _and_ bond to keep the social group together, because it benefits all related offspring.” Wil blushed and looked away. “Which means, since Slayers were made from women, the demon, I think, took advantage of the fact that you have a body that’s wired to use sex for, um, pleasure and relating and networking and stuff, and not necessarily just for, you know, baby-makin’… And, um, you know, it suppresses the part of the sex drive that makes you want to go out and propagate little humans, because you’re not supposed to be propagating a species that’s technically not its main goal to propagate. Like you said; it’s there to protect it, but not reproduce it.”

“Because sex isn’t how Slayers procreate. No more’n vamps; but we still have plenty of sex.” Spike seemed to be enjoying enumerating the ways in which their related species continued to run to commonalities.

Wil held up one hand. “Hold on there, turbo. Whole other part of the lecture. You’re skipping ahead.”

Spike subsided back to his pillow-pile, looking disgruntled. 

Wil turned back to Buffy, clearly warmed to her subject. “So the Slayer-demon-essence-thinger keeps the part of your physiology active that gets off on exciting things. Like hormones—I found plenty of those in the right numbers—and, you know, reroutes a lot of the _reasons_. Like, you know how you always said you got… turned on by fighting, and if you didn’t get some slayage in for too long you got a little… hot and bothered? And…” Her eyes flickered to Spike and away again, and she blushed some more. 

It made sense. It made _so_ much sense, and explained a hell of a lot about how she, personally, felt. Buffy had always wondered if there was something wrong with her, that she’d never really felt that… drive to have kids, no real patient, nurturing thing around them, had wondered when it would show up. ‘When I’m older, probably. It’s probably normal not to want kids this young’ had given way to, ‘God knows I don’t have the time or energy right now to worry about it, that’s probably it’ and then, eventually, ‘Maybe I’m just too broken, with everything I’ve seen, for birth and life. For anything but… death.’ She had started to wonder if she was deficient in some way, as a female human person. Weren’t all women supposed to… _want_ that? But if… her species—subspecies, whatever—just wasn’t wired that way…

It was kind of a relief to hear some confirmation. “Sex to satisfy demon-y urges but not to make babies. God, Nikki Wood must’ve been so torn. If none of us feel any crazy inner need to make babies or any real uber-nurturing thing, and she was just scratching the itch, and then all the sudden she was pregnant…” She let out a heavy breath. “I get it. It was like with Dawn. I try so hard to be gentle and loving with her, but there’s this hard thing in me that says… I’m not mom material. I’m never gonna be.” 

Spike’s eyes on hers were filled, finally, with understanding. “You did fine, Love.”

Willow looked a little sad. “If they could’ve made you without the ability, they probably would have. That’s the problem with making a hybrid that’s alive. With shoving a demon into a human girl. You have all this leftover programming.” 

Buffy’s lips tightened. “Probably that’s the reason they came up with all those controls and, what are they called? Proscriptions?”

“And the minute you start to feel human-girl enough to want what they don’t want you to have, or demon-girl enough to remember what you are, they do away with you. Fucking sods.” Spike shook his head, a faintly wondering expression touching his face, filtering through the link between them. “Still, it’s kind of amazing to consider; how you’re, yet again, just the opposite of me. You die to give the demon its next single living body. My demon… kills the body to make it home; and does it for one of a thousand demons.”

Buffy nodded, but her mind had gone down another tack. “The… nurturing thing. It also explains…” Her eyes lifted. “The closest thing I ever felt to… mom-like, if that’s even what it was; parental, I guess? Was when we had the Potentials in the house. Aside from Dawn, because she’s literally part of me. The Potentials… felt like babies. Children…” 

God, what a weird thing to recognize, in retrospect.

“But now that feeling is gone,” Willow suggested, half-questioningly. “When you’re around the other Slayers, they feel like…”

“Teenagers. Like it’s time for them to leave the house. There’s not that… indulgent feeling, and that desperate need to make sure they survived. Like I’m responsible and they’re my children.” She shrugged a little. “It was _why_ I could leave.”

Wil nodded. “You’ve done it. You’ve procreated. The job’s completed.”

Buffy nodded, looking down at her hands, then glanced over at Spike. “The urge is gone, if there ever was one.”

He nodded a little, understanding now. “Guess that means you get to keep all that energy to yourself, then.” He looked awed.

“Exactly!” Willow answered him, coming back to her feet. “And that means…” She halted, and her hands shook a little. “Buffy, as far as I can tell, unless something happens to give you some kind of shelf-life, or your demon just… gets bored… you’re just gonna keep regenerating. Because that’s what you’re built to do. It’s just reproductive theory for your… Well…”

“My species?”

Wil let out a half-relieved breath to hear her say it. “I guess. I mean, sub-species, maybe. Since you can’t really procreate another Slayer in the same way, you’re more of a… Well, kind of like a mule. Not a horse or a donkey…” Her mouth closed abruptly on another blush at the incredulous looks from Slayer and vampire. “All I’m saying is, chromosomally-speaking, you’re a hybrid and you can’t create another hybrid by parturition…” She trailed off, looking like she wanted to sink into the floor. “Anyway, as long as you’re the host for the essence—which I don’t see changing, since if you aren’t, you’d be dead—you’re gonna keep regenerating. For the foreseeable forever.” Then she very visibly held her breath, as if afraid her news would horrify. Which, from a human perspective, it probably sounded kind of huge. And on one level it was kind of hard to hear that heaven was pretty far away. 

But.

Buffy blinked away to watch Spike, who had the most incredible expression of hope growing in his eyes. “Looks like maybe you’re stuck with me for a while after all.”

“Sodding fucking Christ God, Buffy, I…”

His emotions, filling her, were indescribable. They swamped her, making it tough for her to really even know what she felt for her own part. But then, maybe she didn’t, even. Not yet. It was beyond huge. A lot to consider. But she had somewhat mentally prepared herself, since she had kind of suspected. She had tried not to think too much about it till Willow finished her research, in much the same way she had, till now, tried not to think all that much about growing old while Spike remained the same, being unable to keep up with him in sex and sparring, being unable to work out or slay, and eventually dying and leaving him alone. 

In the face of that, now that she could really look at it…

It was a crazy thing, to have it confirmed for you that you were essentially immortal. Like, what the hell was a person supposed to do with a revelation like that? 

Once again, she would have to look to Spike for guidance. He’d helped her figure out how to navigate life after death. Now… /Well, you’ve been here, first, too. Endless years stretching out in front of you…/

God, what would she do with all that _time?_ Would she eventually get bored, or…

Spike was glowing at her. Literally glowing. “Buffy,” he whispered again, and she knew what it meant to him. He would never have to lose her. Never have to go on without her. And, really… that was all of it, wasn’t it? /How could I ever possibly get bored, if you’re here?/ She really couldn’t feature it, honestly. He still surprised her, on the daily. Always managed to keep her on her toes, even if it was by not-shocking her, sometimes. 

She met his eyes. Held out her hand. And suddenly that endless stretch of years seemed not a desert, but a beautiful, living expanse, filled with adventure.

***

“So, you were ‘bout to tell us something about how vamps differ. Based on your research, before you said I had to wait till you finished the bit about Slayers?”

“Oh. Right. Well…” Willow shrugged and moved to put her notebook away, sliding it carefully back into her satchel. “Basically it’s the same rubric, right? You came from a species that can have sex for pleasure, so once sex got separated from reproduction in the equation…” She shrugged. “I mean, let’s be real. I’m not shocked that vamps still do the deed, whether it’s necessary or not. Just the fact that all your sensations are dialed up to a thousand...”

Buffy grinned broadly. “Let me tell you the ways.”

Back came the blushes. “Really okay with it if you don’t,” Willow informed her primly. “But anyway, it’s all kind of an interesting sidebar, on both sides, to how slapping a demon into a human made them, in both versions, turn to total asexual reproduction, but in two completely different ways. It’s just you both kept this latent sexuality as sort of a backup system; for funsies. Not that I bet either of you are complaining…”

“Hell no.”

“No,” Buffy ratified alongside her guy, “not complaining.” /Not even a little. And he’s not the only one who gets dialed up to a thousand, sometimes, considering the lack of mayhem around these parts, lately.../

Wil had gone down a whole other route, though, turning to Spike. “Do you ever feel the urge to… um… procreate?”

Spike snorted dryly and re-crossed his ankles the other way; a shift that let Buffy know he was feeling a little wary. Understandably, considering the conversation they had only just had on the subject. It had been, after all, a very private one; though no doubt he would have felt a lot less comfortable with the interrogation had Buffy not already broached the subject the other day. “Sometimes,” he answered, sounding as easy as he could. Only she could really see and hear his disquiet. “I see the right person… But I don’t act on it.”

Wil’s eyes flitted briefly to Buffy’s, saw her placid, unmoved expression, relaxed slightly. Probably she’d been worried about bringing the subject up at all; maybe uncertain if they’d ever discussed it and unwilling to plant a bomb in their relationship. But, so far so good, because they’d covered these bases already. “It’s just interesting. You’d think, since you don’t use sex to reproduce, neither of you would need that… vestigial trait anymore. But since you don’t have the chance to evolve out of that trait—because each time a new one of your subspecies are made, it’s by being implanted into individuals who haven’t evolved out of the need for sex-as-reproduction—that means you keep that vestigial trait intact as social interaction. It’s really fascinating. Because it’s still, and will always be part of how your nervous system works; a sort of byproduct of how you work when you get…” She halted, blushed. “…Excited…”

Spike smirked roundly, equilibrium reestablished. “Lot of crossed wires between feeding and sex, violence and sex, our version of reproduction and sex. Doesn’t half matter that that’s not how we replace ourselves anymore. The high’s there, so…” He shrugged in his own turn, letting the gesture finish the sentence for him.

Wil seemed to be fighting to avoid blushing anymore at this frank appraisal, and she very much avoided looking at Buffy. “I could do a doctoral thesis on this, if I didn’t think I’d end up laughed out of every scholarly publication on Earth. It’s all so fascinating. The drive’s still there, just… rerouted.” She paused then. “What interests _me_ , though, is the part where somehow, a species that uses humans as a food source can somehow look at humans and, randomly, just sometimes, decide one of them is… sentient enough, or interesting enough in another way—attractive in some way to the demon, or whatever, has the right kind of, I dunno, properties—that the demon goes, ‘Wait! _That_ one. That’s the one I want to use to house my baby’. Because let’s face it. That’s just a really weird reproductive strategy, putting your spawn in your food-source…”

“Not the only demons to do it,” Spike reminded her, dismissive. “Werewolves do it, when you think about it…”

Willow jerked. Her gaze lifted to him in amazement. Clearly she hadn’t considered this at all. But then, she wasn’t alone. Buffy really hadn’t either. 

“Have the choice, don’t they?” Spike continued sagely. “Can bite to kill, eat, like us… or bite to leave behind the line, the species mark; mark that one as a home for a new wolf. Then, new wolf-spirit comes in from whatever the hell dimension is their home-port, settles in… and lies dormant till each full moon, when it takes over for a while and pushes the human soul aside for a bit.” A one-shouldered shrug of dismissal. “Just like us, only part time, yeah?”

Buffy really, really hadn’t thought about it in any depth, but it was stupidly similar, and _why_ hadn’t she thought about it more?

Willow looked like she’d been hit over the head with a support beam.

“Haxil do it too,” Spike went on blithely, and shook off their incredulous expressions. “Though, granted, they eat the human mothers _after_ they give birth, like a soddin’ spider eats the males to give ‘em back the energy they take up producin’ eggs. Skilosh only consume the brains while they gestate. Sort of like an egg yolk. Brains are full of protein…”

Buffy gave his leg an admonitory squeeze, her own brain kickstarted back into action by all this talk of people as yolks, because, ew. “I’m begging you to stop, Spike,” she implored him tightly. 

Because he was kind of a jerk—or maybe just on a roll—he didn’t desist just yet in his quest to offer further demonic examples of humans-as-breeding-media. “…And then there was that asshat Mah Zinn, who used every poor sod who came to the bloody place lookin’ for help, instead slapped one of his spawn in their heads to control ‘em…” He frowned. “Though, that’s a poor example, since all they were really eating were emotions, not anything physical.” His eyes drifted over to where his phone lay on the nightstand. “Speaking of, I need to check in with Beck again, see how she’s doin’…” 

Disturbed by the faint sense of guilt now coloring his ‘feel’ over their bond—and maybe kind of glad for the change of subject—Buffy frowned and scanned through the mental rolodex. “The girl with the fire-hands? The one you met in whatsitcalled? Mosaic?”

The troubled expression remained. “Yeah. Thank Christ she listened to my warning and stayed the bloody hell out of LA. She was talkin’ about comin’ that way for a visit right about when things went to pot.” He regarded Buffy briefly, looking deep in thought. “Though, to be fair, she’d have been a hell of a help, did she join our bitty team of girls on the other side. Wouldn’t hurt to see if she might be interested in joining up, now.”

“I could imagine she’d be handy.” /Heh. 'Handy'./ A girl who could shoot fire out of her palms or whatever would not have gone amiss in Hell-A; especially working alongside someone like Gwen Raiden. She couldn’t blame Spike for considering further recruitment in the current moment, considering things felt like they were amping up again. /Though…/ “Sounds like she kind of had a massive crush on you, since you saved her from horrible migraines and mental slavery. Not that I blame her for that,” she pointed out with a little nudge-and-smile. “But no offense… you had enough part-demon girls hanging all over you and slavering over your every move in that place without adding another one into the mix.”

Spike grinned, balance restored by her teasing. “Love it when you’re jealous, Buffy.”

“Territorial,” she amended blandly. “Not jealous.”

“Uhuh.”

“If we could get back to the interesting reproductive conversation?” Wil broke in, sounding tired. “Spike, I’m seriously going to have to interview you sometime. Like… what does that urge… _feel_ like? I mean, we had a serious plague of fledge-making on the hellmouth, which kind of leads me to believe that there’s a drive there. That, you know, it must feel good to make baby vamps, or they wouldn’t’ve done it so often, right?” At his brow-lifted regard, she shrugged it off, looking shy. “Okay, stop looking at me like that. It’s a fair scientific query. That part has always fascinated me. Like… what is it that flips that switch in a vamp’s head, and makes you stop seeing just a potential meal, and instead gets you to see a person as a possible future childe? There has to be some kind of… I dunno. _Thing_ , there.”

Buffy had to admit to being interested in that subject as well, considering, A, she had no idea if Spike had had that ‘pull’ very often—and god knew it would be a good thing to know about one’s mate—and, B, it really was kind of a weird thing to think about. How did they go from ‘Happy Meals with legs’ to ‘Imma spend the next hundred years with _that_ one’? /It has to be something about recognizing some part of the humanity in them that is worthy of becoming a vampire in some way or another; recognizing something in them that would… add to the bloodline in some way, or would give the baby vamp some kind of advantage, or…

“I dunno,” Spike answered, breaking into her thoughts with a clearly uncomfortable shift to his body. “I’ve only felt it here and there in flashes. It’s…” He shook his head a little. “Maybe it’s something that both the demonside and the human side have to find attractive in concert? Or maybe there’s something in that person that the bloodline wants, to strengthen it?” he went on, unconsciously dovetailing with Buffy’s own thoughts. “or, I guess, like with Dru, something that particular demon needs in a companion?”

Buffy considered it, pensive. “I mean, it’d have to be something in the human, though, right? Something the demon hopes will transfer over? Because this is someone who’ll not just become your kid, but also sometimes a mate, in a way—at least partially—so it’s not just this… casual thing…” She felt her lips crease slightly in acknowledgment. “At least, off the hellmouth, anyway.”

Spike smiled back, faint gratitude in his eyes for the acknowledgement. “Yeah. The demon comin’ in is for sure not enough on its own, since it’s got nothing of its own at first; at least as it comes to personality. All that comes from the human. Or, rather, it’ll have some quirks of its own that’ll mix with the human, but they’re more…” He waved a hand in the air, as if seeking to encapsulate something ephemeral into words. “…More sort of bloodline traits than individual ones, I reckon. It becomes a mixture, yeah, but the demon’s not enough on its own, or we wouldn’t be picking particular humans. It wouldn’t matter so soddin’ much, yeah? We’d just shove a demon in whoever came by.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed, nodding. “Maybe at one point it was like that, with the Turok-Han; when it was about swarming. But now…”

“Now it’s specific,” Spike finished for her, eyes fixed on her gaze. “You seek certain traits for childer.” And then a faint, cockeyed smile touched his lips. “A minion’s different. They’re disposable, so it really doesn’t matter what they’re about, ‘less you’re looking for traits like dumb loyalty, or bein’ brain-dead enough to follow orders or what-have-you. But childer…” He tilted his head, seeking the right words. “They’re companions. You wanna keep ‘em around. They need to be good for the nest, good for the line. I know Angelus thought Dru picked a loser with me, which was why he treated me like a minion and not a scion, but now it seems she wasn’t so much choosing for the bloodline’s sake, which might explain the hell of a lot when it came to me and my dynamic with the rest of the nest…”

Willow frowned, then glanced up at them, eyes darting briefly from Buffy to Spike and back again. “So, if it’s about… finding something in the human part of the person that still somehow satisfies the demon in you… How did this work for you, Spike? This thing with Buffy? Because from the stuff Buffy’s said, you vibed just as much with the demon-y side of her, which…”

Spike grinned broadly, caught Buffy’s eye. She felt herself smiling back, folded her fingers in his as he answered. “That’s different, Red. With the Slayer, I found my equal.” And his fingers squeezed. “Well, more than. My queen. But putting that aside…”

Buffy interrupted, twiddling her fingers in his. “When you’re picking out someone to make a baby vamp, you’re choosing a human you’re gonna put a demon in. Slayers already have a demon in there. There’s no need to make a childe out of them for that companionship, so instead Spike’s demon saw the potential for a mate right off the bat. And so did mine.”

“Match made in bloody heaven.” He smirked at her, gave her hand a tug. “Or hell, whatever’s your fancy.”

“Which, some might say is because we were both twisted, but then, when you get down to it…” Buffy turned briefly away to eye Wil with about one-quarter of her attention. “If Dru’s really a Slayer, or at least a Potential, then my demon’s known Spike—and Angel—for years and years, way before I ever met them in this body. Which means we have always had a history, and it’s no wonder I got all hung up with these guys too.” She ignored Willow’s shocked gasp at this interpretation of her past dramas and attractions. It really did explain a whole hell of a lot about the immediate draw she had felt to both the sons of Aurelius. “And Spike,” she went on, “since he was sired by a Conduit…”

“He was already primed,” Wil went on, fascinated. “Wow.” And she leaned back on one hand, looking dazed. “I just never thought of… of what it might mean that you… Because it’s all one demon, that all of those experiences…”

“The Slayer I met in LA, Dana,” Spike reminded Wil in low tones. “She knew me as the vamp who killed her in China.”

Wil’s mouth dropped open in amazement.

“More’n one reason she whacked off my hands, yeah?”

“Oh.”

Buffy blinked away from Willow to stare at her guy, thrown. “You never told me that.” That Dana had recognized him, not about the hands. He had casually dropped _that_ bomb to her and Dawn when in the midst of informing them of how and why he had learned to play videogames, as if that wouldn’t send both his girls into a total freaked-out tailspin. Buffy had had half a mind to call up Andrew and yell at him again over that one, for not telling her that not only had her guy been in LA, but he had been in serious harm’s way for a while there, because talk about a tragedy if WR&H hadn’t been able to reattach those hands.

She was a serious fan of his hands. Not that she wouldn’t have wanted him to have them back either way, but, just...

Anyway, Dana. Recognition. “She…”

“Oh. Didn’t I?” he asked blandly. “Sorry. Must’ve slipped my mind.”

She really could kill him sometimes. “Ugh. Seriously, Spike? That’s, like, evidence.”

He shrugged it off. “Between ‘killed two of you’ and ‘wanted by one of you’…” He frowned. “And, accordin’ to the theory, ‘chosen in the first bloody place by one of you’, she seemed to be more on the ‘brassed off over the killing’ portion of things.”

“Well, she was generally upset at life,” Buffy pointed out, stomach roiling more than a little in hindsight. “Still is.” Dana wasn’t the only young woman—or even child—who’d had a pretty awful life, only to be very abruptly invested with Slayer strength, instincts, and subconscious memories galore. Tapping into all that on top of PTSD and rage was… 

Well, it did things to people. Faith, as their resident expert in that kind of trauma, was likely to have her hands full for a good long while, sorting through the chaff. And Dana was too much even for her. She had licensed professionals working with her, three round-the-clock Watchers; two, leftover papered ones who had been among the few who had survived the First’s purge because they’d been in the field, and one recruited more recently from the ranks of psychologists who also had an interest in the paranormal and had thus readily accepted the reality in which they lived. 

Still, no doubt it would be years before she might come out of her disaster of a life in any shape to be anything but a huge, scary mess. Poor kid.

“Well, however it went for me,” Spike pushed on, dismissing it all with a wave of his hand, “doesn’t have much bearing on your original question, Red.”

Willow jerked her attention back to him. “Huh?”

“Whole bloody sidebar on me and Dru,” he elaborated. “What you wanted to know was, why do we choose who we do. And since most of the sirings I’ve done were under duress while I was under bloody hypnosis, all I can tell you is, maybe it has something to do with what the line needs…”

“Most?”

Leave it to Wil to jump on the qualifier. Understandably, Spike ignored the interruption, because no way was he going to get into the special case with ‘the Wanton Folly’ of his mum. Not that Buffy blamed him in the slightest on that regard. “Some instinct as to what’ll strengthen the breed or some such shite,” he ground on. “But as to the rest…” And he rolled his tongue briefly, favoring their friend with one of his awful, instigating smiles, “yeah. It feels bloody good to sire someone.” The smile faded out, then, turned troubled around the edges. “Tried not to think of it, the one time I did it knowingly, because the person I did it to was… someone about whom I shouldn’t be feeling that sort of feeling, but… there’s a purely physical ecstasy that comes along with the act…”

/And, you went there./ Talk about totally unexpected. Also, oh, crap… Buffy hadn’t even thought of that dimension of things. And obviously, he wouldn’t have known, when he had begun, that it would feel… /Oh, _God_./ 

That made it even worse. 

What a mind-fuck.

“Always is, a’ course,” he went on grimly, “with biting, and draining. But then when someone feeds off of you, there’s a pulling, and a sharing, and…” He closed his eyes briefly, shuddered, and his tones turned hard. “It’s really soddin’ sensual, alright? The demon bloody well gets off on it. So, yeah. The ones as did it every bleedin’ night on the hellmouth? They did it because they were addicted to the feeling. Didn’t give a damn about the fledges they made. They just wanted the high. Fucking bastards.”

Spike really, really had an issue with deadbeat parents. Not that Buffy blamed him, since she felt the same way, and laid a careful hand on his arm. He wouldn’t feel the best right now about having had to recount the purely physical part, either, since even if he would have fought to stick to the recovered memories of the sirings he’d done under the command of The First, those would remain a hazy exercise. Whereas, unfortunately, the one siring he’d performed entirely of his own choice had been on a family member for whom he most definitely would not have wanted to feel… that. 

No wonder the subsequent vampire had accused Spike of having mixed motivations in that department. For a new demon, that was what it was all about; a birthing all mixed up with hunger and sex, and no understanding whatsoever of the inversion taking place inside its sire; the complicated human emotions one owed to an entirely other type of parent. 

The concept of parenting sans sexual connection wouldn’t have remotely made sense to an infant vampire in the first place, and sensing the confusion Spike would have felt over the entire thing, and incorrectly interpreting his mother’s skewed, leftover worries for her lonely son… 

It might explain, finally, what had gone down there, that had so screwed Spike up for so many decades. Which, by the way… /Just, ugh./

Wil was off on a whole other tack, though. “Do the, um, genders always match?”

Jerked right out of his rage-y, inward study, Spike’s head bounced up. He tilted his head at Willow, clearly thrown. “Pardon?”

“I just realized, you know, you have this entity coming in from outside, and if it’s, I dunno, sex, or gender, or whatever doesn’t match the one the human had, then there’d be some kind of gender confusion in the vampire, right?” Facing Spike’s gaping expression, she shrugged. “Does that ever happen? Can there be, like, trans vampires?” At his continued blank look she elaborated patiently. “You know, like, you’re a woman, but you get a male demon, or vice-versa? Your gender identity gets all screwy after you’re sired? I mean, obviously other things don’t always come out matchy, considering Angel, so…”

Spike subsided back to the bed with a snort and reached for his ever-present flask, as if her question had pushed him to need liquid assistance. “The demon’s a bloody infant, Red. Doesn’t have a bleedin’ gender. Gets all that from the life the human lived beforehand. And sex is somethin’ inherent in the body, yeah? Demon didn’t have a body when it came in, so it doesn’t have a sex.” He took a vast swig from the flask, shaking his head. “The human had that business goin’ on, demon’s gonna have it from them. Takes on everything about the human, innit? Has nothing of its own but what it inherits from the line.”

Willow leaned forward, fascinated. “So, if the human is, say, a piano prodigy…”

Spike shrugged. “There’s a bit of give an’ take. I wasn’t any great shakes at physical shite as a human. Clumsy bugger. Got my…” He blinked over at Buffy, frowning. “What the bloody hell do they call it now?”

“Kinetic intelligence?” she supplied, enjoying him. Usually it was her asking him to fill in the wordy blanks. 

“Yeah, that one. Got that from the demon. Though, considerin’ my big problem as a human was nerve, I’m willin’ to bet what really happened was it just relieved me of my soddin’ confidence issues, like it did with every other bloody thing…” He shrugged, eyes sliding back over to Willow. “Demon needs the human’s experience, personality, the lot, just to get on, since it knows sod-all about gettin’ along in this dimension, or really how to live at all. Needs a sire to know how to be a proper vamp, or else it just figures it all out on instinct, but without the human memories it doesn’t even have an identity.” Willow was nodding along, looking like she was taking swift mental notes as he continued. “An’ yeah; does the demon develop some sort of personality quirk along the way later that conflicts with what the human life gave it, there might come some sort of weird personality schism…”

/And we all know what that looks like/ Buffy thought grimly.

“…But that’s not common. Bloody Angelus was a one-off. Dru…” He took another long, fortifying swig. “Well, we all know she was a soddin’ fucked off composite or summat.” He frowned and lowered the flask to glance over at Buffy. “Dunno about me. Watcher says I’m an odd duck, so who bloody knows. Maybe I somehow got off with a better armistice when it comes to my nature than most, or negotiated smoother sailing somehow between all my bits than the general run of fledges, accepted the transition more easily or some such shite. Who knows. I only know what I’ve experienced.” He pinned Wil with his blue laser-gaze. “But no. That business… It all transfers over. The human has gender confusion, or abandonment issues, or is a world-class violinist, or a renowned painter, or a soddin’ schizophrenic, then so’s the bloody demon. End of.” He grinned then, and lifted the flask in an ironic toast. “Demon’s just gonna do it with more flare, take it to extremes. And maybe add a little blood and a few corpses to the mix, call it art.”

Buffy rolled her eyes at him. “Beast,” she accused easily.

“Well.”

Willow blinked at them, shook her head slowly. “A, I am officially shocked and horrified at you, Buffy, for the way you are no longer shocked and horrified by anything Spike says, or even just a tiny bit dismayed. You know. Just to say you were.”

Buffy shrugged. “I’ve made my peace with my nature, and his.”

“Uhuh. And B, Spike, if I ever get to publish, someday—you know, if this whole thing goes down and the world ends up finding out about you or whatever—do you want credit, or what? Because you have to know I’m totally dying to do a thesis on this whole thing.”

Spike narrowed his eyes at Willow all suspiciously. “What makes you think I have any interest in contributing to scholarship of any bloody kind?”

Willow favored him with a _look_ , turned, and shot a pointed glance over at the low bookshelf on his side of the bed, which, to be fair, was absolutely crammed full of classics, including at least a couple of those Greek things, the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ (neither of which, incidentally, were translations, but were in the original Greek. Ancient Greek or whatever, not Modern Greek, for the record). Not to mention two or three volumes of Shakespeare, and at least six well-worn poetry anthologies by people like Eliot and Neruda and Donne, all squeezed in cheek-by-jowl beside his various-sized and very dog-eared handwritten journals… and not a few more modern tomes bearing titles like, _1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus; On Mexican Time;_ and _The Alhambra_. “I have my suspicions,” she informed him blandly, “that you are in no way as disinterested in… well, anything, as you pretend to be.” And she rose to her feet. “I need to get back to HQ. I have to inform Giles about all of this, so we can, you know, figure out how to deal with the fallout when it comes to hundreds of baby Slayers…”

/Oh, man… Jeez./ Buffy honestly hadn’t quite thought of the impact of this revelation when it came to the logistics of the current crop of Slayers existing for hundreds of years or whatever. Though she supposed she should have, since by Calling them all at once they had kind of upended the ‘one girl active at a time’, domino-effect version of Slayer-dom in favor of mass-activation. They still didn’t know what would happen with any new ones being born, if any; a worry that had plagued them all since Wil had done the spell. As in, would the ripple-effect of what they had done at the Sunnydale hellmouth continue to ripple outward to activate any new Potentials being born (ie, would they be Called at birth? At puberty? Not at all?). Or, would it only continue to affect the ones activated in that moment? 

It was hard to know what to expect, with a spell that had altered the very fabric of another spell that had in effect been in place since the beginning of time. Had they activated all possible Slayers in every bloodline ever on Earth, so that there would be no more born? Or had they Called just the ones available in that moment? Would there ever be more Potentials, or would more come along in a new wave, born in the same way as ever? And if so, would they ever be Called, now, with the way the Slayer-spirit now existed, housed in hundreds all at once? 

This new ‘longevity complication’ was a frightening wrinkle to add to the pie, either way. It meant they had either a ‘generation’ of eight-to twenty-two-year-old Slayers (so far as they had been able to figure it, essentially every Potential who had hit puberty and thus been capable of being Called had been in the moment the spell had been released), who were apparently going to live forever, or until they died in battle. And one of two things would happen from here on out. Either there would be no more Slayers, ever again (a possibility which might excite those Twilight bastards), in which case each time one of them died, the power of the Line would simply retreat into the ones currently extant. If that happened, the withdrawal of that power from the dead Slayers would simply consolidate the power of the Line in the still-living ones, in turn beefing up a power that had, once upon a time, existed entirely in one--or two--girls in total.  
  
Alternatively, there would be the current generation, and new ones being born behind them who would not activate until every single one of the current generation died off. Which made sense if you considered that this one set all currently shared a single generational entity of the Slayer-soul. In that case, it would follow that the essence or whatever could not pass on into any new Potentials until every one of the currently-active ones died out, and it could retreat back into One Girl; because only then, at her demise, could it once more pass on to a new candidate. 

Either way... /Talk about a long, endless life of slowly watching all your friends die off—the only ones who could ever understand you—till you ended up a lonely, desperate, tired creature dying to die./ Also, talk about possibly generations of Potentials living and dying, once more, without being activated, which… Well, that honestly sounded kind of good for them. The sacrifice of the few in the name of thousands over who knew how many generations, when you got down to it. The same thing happening as once did with Slayers and Potentials, but all at once and on a grand scale, with the Actives living so that the Potentials didn’t have to be Called.

What a thought.

“Xander has a meeting set up with a couple heads of the other cells,” Wil went on, unaware of Buffy’s internal uncertainty, “and then I need to coordinate with a nearby coven to see if we can ensure cooperation in case of attack…”

Spike, still stuck without a fancy comeback, remained sitting as Buffy rose with her to follow her friend out of the room, leaving him to stew in the morass of his own making. 

“Hey. Leaving so soon?” Rinne asked, batting her lashes at Wil as she reentered the main space.

“Oh. Um, yeah. I have… stuff,” Wil answered, transforming promptly from self-assured woman to babbling fool. 

/This is interesting./ Buffy had forgotten about the whole flirting demon-woman sitch. 

“That’s too bad,” Rinne informed her, sauntering closer. “Sure you can’t stay awhile longer?”

“W… I mean, I have to… There’s a meeting, and then…” Abruptly robbed of all self-assurance, Willow shot Buffy a look she wasn’t sure she could interpret. Was that a request for assistance, for support from a wingman, or just a general, ‘what do I do?’ kind of thing? 

“You’ll be coming back soon, though, right?” Buffy put in, possibly unhelpfully, because what the hell. Spike didn’t need to be the only one in the house who was currently confused and uncomfortable, right? Wil was a big girl. She should know what to do about a flirtatious chick by this point, right?

“Glad to hear it,” Rinne answered, all sultry moves and big eyes. “Maybe this time you’ll join our game.”

“Um… I’d just lose all my money. I’m… not very good at… poker…” Wil sounded totally flustered, but she really wasn’t backing off or running away, which was _definitely_ interesting.

“I’m betting you have other talents.” Rinne sounded very sure of that statement.

“I…” If Wil went any more red she’d be Sweet-colored. 

Buffy decided to take pity on her friend at that point. “I thought you had a meeting.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. Um, see you later, Buffy.” Wil favored her with a one-armed hug that was, it must be said, wildly distracted, blinked some more at Rinne, kind of gave her a little nod, and then conjured an extremely hurried portal and vanished to Scotland with haste. As the doorway irised to a bright dot and vanished, Buffy lifted one eyebrow at her jade compatriot, curious where all that had come from.

“I won the toss,” Rinne informed her blandly, and shrugged. “Imma land her. You just watch.”

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. “I’m not in this,” she informed her friend, and turned back toward the bedroom. 

“You don’t need to be. I got this.” Rinne sounded very self-assured as she headed out toward the back exit.

/Oh, wow./ 

“You know,” Buffy informed her vampire as she reentered the bedroom, “Wil is actually being _hunted_ by Rinne right now?”

“Bully for Rinne,” Spike informed her from the bed. He sounded very snappish, and not the slightest bit interested in current gossip. “Slayer, no one’s ever bloody coming into our bedroom, ever again.”

Buffy felt a broad smile take over her features. /Okay, grumpypants./ Moving to her side of the bed, she slid in beside him and curled herself into his side. “Can’t have people catching onto your secret identity,” she agreed. /My testy vampire, who doesn’t want anyone to know he could totally be, like, a college professor or whatever./

_“Buffy…”_ he muttered warningly.

She kissed his throat. “I’ll never tell. As long as you pay me.”

He snorted dryly. “Oh, yeah? What’s the toll for your continued silence, then?”

“Oh, you know. Constant, vigorous sexual favors.”

He grunted, amusement finally bleeding back into his voice. His hand rose, picked up its habitual stroking of her hair. “Oh. Well. That, I can do.”

“Well, then, you’re safe.” She snuggled a little closer in to drape herself further across his body. “Thought I could get a smile out of you.”

“Manipulative bird.”

“Mmhm.” She paused for a long moment, then slid a hand up, over his still heart. “And you’re stuck with me.” She waited, not quite sure what…

She was rolled very suddenly onto her back, and his face was buried in her neck, his arms wrapped so tightly around her that she could barely breathe. “Oh, Buffy,” he whispered, low into her hair.

She closed her eyes, dug her fingers into his curls. /I can’t think about all the other girls, and whether they’ll ever have this. Not right now. I do, and that’s…/ “I sure hope you won’t get tired of being a good boy, because if you do, I’m going to have to learn how to be more Punk, and I don’t know if that’s a good look for me.”

He groaned and dug his fingers deeper into her shoulders, her waist. And murmured things into her body, things she couldn’t hear but could definitely feel; things she knew meant ‘mine’, and ‘forever’, and ‘never let you go’.

/I am so okay with that./

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _Lo siento, mami, ella es mucho mas interesante que tu. =_ Sorry, mami, she's much more interesting than you. (It's kind of tough to translate 'mami'.)  
  
Short (for me) but sweet and lovey-dovey, because I'm feeling fluffy rn. (I need the fluff where I can get it, considering I'm racing against time in my newest, very dark fic.)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok... I'm not sure why this keeps happening. It's completely unintentional, but once again, this story and the other big WIP, These Violent Delights, are going to mirror each other somewhat. So if you happen to be reading both... sorry about that. I never thought they were going to happen at the same time. Seriously, I had no idea how the chapter breakdown was going to work on this one, etc. Complete accident of timing, both things driven by canon events, and I apologize for how this might end up being confusing as to which story has what version going on.
> 
> Tho, tbf, it might allow for some people to tell me whether certain interactions feel in any way different. If they do, it'll mean I've done my job with the characters!!!

_  
  
“Nothing in life is to be feared; it is only to be understood. Now is the time to understand more so that we may fear less.”_

* * *

After the latest meeting, set up with seven—count ‘em, _seven!_ —demon leaders, some of them from as far off as Lisbon, Valencia, Barcelona, and one interested party of the very lucrative variety from freaking _Monaco_ , Buffy was beat. Like, shaky, beat. Having Faith at the last one, with all the movers and shakers from Andalucia and nearby portions of southern Spain, had made things look—and feel, with her comparative age and Slayer-weight—serious enough to turn some heads. The whole thing with knocking off the El Ejido baddie for that bunch had apparently garnered them enough word of mouth for this thing to really start taking off.   
  
Reportedly they were starting to get interest from the French demons, as well, which was just… wow.

If they hadn’t had Betta George with them at this last meeting, Buffy wasn’t sure they could’ve managed it with any finesse at all. Having their telepathic fish friend with them had turned out to be an indispensable addition to proceedings; so much so that after the fact, Buffy had turned to face the oversized guppy, looked him right in one shiny, dark eye, and informed him flatly, “You’re hired. From here on out. _Please_. Because that was _amazing_.” 

For real. He had single-handedly ensured they had made zero missteps, while balancing the interests and needs of literally five regions, four species, twelve different business models… Just, so much. Not to mention that having a telepath along—one who was a demon, not a human—had brought serious weight to the table as it came to the whole ‘keeping everyone honest’ thing. The peeps in on the meeting appeared to find George’s presence a sort of evener-outter, getting everyone on the same footing. And the fact that he, a demon, had come into the meeting with them, had garnered them not a little credit with that bunch when it came to their apparent willingness to be truthful, friendly, work side-by-side with demonkind (you know, the kind Buffy wasn’t specifically sleeping with, which understandably made Spike’s motivations a little suspect even for the ones who weren’t prejudiced against vamps), and yadda.

Lucky for them, George seemed ready to take a more active hand in things. --This, I can do. This kind of ‘laying things out on the table’ deal? Yeah. I can do that. And around here, no one’s…-- He’d cut off, bubbled a heavy sigh. 

He hadn’t needed to finish. They’d all known what he’d meant. /The locals aren’t all traumatized, like the ones in LA. Which is fair./

It was still a pretty fraught meeting, though, in the vein of, ‘we can’t get this wrong, this is major, this is a turning-point, we have to get it right’, and Buffy had crashed hard pretty much the minute they got off the train from Valencia and stumbled home, out of the cab from El Ejido. She barely even felt Spike’s arm over her body, soothing her to sleep, before she was out.

She woke with sweating suddenness, wildly aroused, to stare around her into the darkness of predawn. Her heart was thundering, her pulse pounding between her thighs, fists clenched in the sheets and her teeth bared, every part of her screaming with need; to fight, or fuck, or kill, or… “What…” 

God, what had she been _dreaming?_

Whatever the particulars, it was fairly easy to extrapolate, having woken this way plenty of times in the last few months. It wasn’t new. Usually, she could work off the… excess energy with some hard sparring, a heavy workout, or by turning to Spike and asking for a little… intimate assistance. 

It was understandable, after all. She wasn’t slaying much anymore. Not at all, really, except for that once, with the ear-monster in El Ejido, but it had been a couple of weeks since then, and…

Details were slowly but surely trickling back in, in flashes, and, /God, the dreams usually aren’t this… vivid!/ 

To be fair, though, back in the day when she used to have these, she didn’t walk away from a risen fledge, having reined in all of her most fundamental and primal instincts to be ‘higher brain girl’, only to surround herself with a complement of high-ranking demons a few days later, for hours of tense negotiation while holding back all of said urges. To fill her senses to buzzing with the feel of their heavyweight presences all around her… only to smile and waltz off after and try to, of all things, go to sleep in peace, without lifting a hand against any of them. 

The dreams were a resurgence of deprivation at its most base level.

This quiet life had disadvantages that were proving… Well. Less than workable from a demonic standpoint, or at least judging by the psychological and physiological fallout. Much like the period after her little mish-mash with her friends to take out Adam, and circa her meetup with Dracula, Buffy had been having straight-up demon-dreams again lately; dreams that were a mishmash of stalking, seeking, finding—essentially hunting—locating, fighting. The satisfying impact of fist to scaly or tentacled flesh, the thrill of a return blow, rocking back her head; coming up feral to swing…

And, killing. The grating of a sword through a throat, finding bone. The splash of blood or ichor on her chest, her hands, her arms… and the gratifying note of light fading from wild, angry, ferocious eyes. 

Once, such dreams had haunted and horrified her. Now, she accepted that side of herself as a necessary part of her being. She had, after all, been made to hunt, to fight… _and_ to kill, and clearly that part of herself was being shortchanged. They could do all the training and demon bar-bouncing and sparring and rough, kinky lovemaking and even fast, bite-y sex they wanted, but aside from the contract-hit up north a couple weeks back, Buffy hadn’t killed a damn thing since… /God. Has it really been since that fight with those Hellions in Kentucky? Holy crap./ She’d been in a couple of contests that barely counted, but aside from that and the battle with the Scourge, at most she’d wounded a few things, had some bloodless tussles. Spike had helped with the Silencer-thing and downed Warren, but that last had been more feeding than anything. And, well… she’d had no part in that last, or any of the rougher stuff at Drextalcorp, because humans, and had had no real release for the whole filled-up-with-magicks-dump-to-fight-Amy thing, on top of everything else. 

When you got right down to it, the fact of the matter was she had tried for months now to satiate that side of herself with other, lesser pursuits… and ultimately, they did not suffice. She was a Slayer, and Slayers, apparently, needed to do a little actual slaying here and there, or things got dicey. /Lie to myself, much? I’m just as much of a killer as any vamp, just as much on the wagon as Spike is./

Her true nature, already badly strained by abstinence, had been reawakened by a nice, serious slay, only to be denied once more at Lucero’s rebirth, and yet again at tonight’s meeting. It was not prepared to go somnolent again; to accept uneasy quiescence and a starvation diet and lie decently abed, tossing and turning beneath her new, peaceable surface. /And what the hell do I do about that? Right now, when we’re in the middle of what’re probably the most important negotiations of our lives!/ For one thing, it could all fall apart if she killed even one demon.

One thing was certain. She was a mess right now, needed either her vampire, or a little private recreation. One guess which was the more attractive of the two options. Granted, he’d probably only fallen asleep within the last hour, but…

Still aching and desperate, teeth clenched, she turned to him… and in the faint light of predawn saw him arched on the bed, fists clutching the sheets, cock tenting the light blanket impressively and with every muscle of his torso outlined as he strained toward some goal only he saw. And, in his sleep, his visage rippled from game face to human and back again, over and over again. And then stuck, hard, on the demon, fangs out and vicious, and…

It seemed she wasn’t the only one going through withdrawals. That, or her dreams had tripped his onto the deprivation circuit… but Buffy kind of thought that Spike might even have been keeping his demon-side more under wraps than she had been keeping hers, if possible, for obvious reasons. Which… Well. 

This was likely to get a little scary—and no doubt bloody—but it was what it was. It for sure wasn’t new. And, okay; he was probably going to be upset about it at first, or maybe even ashamed, but she would have to just make him realize she understood… and that she didn’t blame him. That it was mutual, even. Because it was what it was, and they both needed to be… well, _relieved_. 

Hopefully it wouldn’t destroy something between them that had been long- and carefully cultivated; this thing they had worked so hard to make, and to keep separate from what they had been, before. But she thought, and believed, that they knew each other well enough now that they could be this for one another again without it becoming the bad thing it had once been. So. 

Pulling the sheet away, she caught his cock in a hard grip, dug her nails in a little. And bit him, hard, in the fleshy part of the shoulder.

He shot awake with a sharp growl, rolled her instinctively, poised already for the plunge… and halted, staring, as the reality of the waking moment flooded in. “Buffy?”

It would have to be consent enough. 

She shoved him over onto his back, straddled him, poised in her turn. “Tell me.”

His game face faded. “Oh, fuck. Buffy, I…”

“No.” She slapped him, light and stinging, to bring him back to the demon. _“Tell_ me.”

Too close to the surface, filled with the agonized requirements of his base nature, he flickered back to game face with a sharp crunch, staring at her even as his hips bucked beneath her waiting body. “I can’t…” he groaned.

/Tell me, he means./ He could most definitely do something about it physically. He was still arcing toward her, strained, everything in him willing.   
  
She bit his ear, wringing a hiss from him. His hands fell desperately to her hips. “Yeah you can,” she informed him, and catching him in hand once more, she pulled him unceremoniously toward her, impaled herself. /Ohhhh, _fuck_ …/ God, she’d needed that. /And so do you. So we’ll take each other, and…/ “You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine. We can both be…” Rocking on him, she moaned involuntarily at the perfection of him. “…Ashamed about it… or we can just be real. It’s been…” /Fuuuuck…/ “…Too damn long.”

His golden eyes fell closed. “Please, don’t… make me tell you what…” Guilt, she could feel there, from him. No regret for the sex, which only reinforced for her that he wasn't particularly minding that part... but they would have to work on the rest.

She thrust onto him, rocking back, already losing herself. “You think you can… scare me? Remember the… games we played when it was bad? I _know_.”

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered, thrusting with her in spite of himself. “But that was… That was before…”

“I dreamed I was slaying.” Slamming down hard on him, viciously enough to leave bruises on them both, she drove him on, because they were both aware that no matter how ashamed he might be in the moment, his body had no shame right now. It was giving her exactly what she needed… and she was giving him precisely what he did. “I was hunting… for the fun of it. Killing indiscriminately… just for the joy of taking heads…” She dragged in a breath, lost the thread of words, found them again when she opened her eyes to his stunned stare. “…Of feeling the blood splash up my body.” Pinned him with her gaze. “I was playing with my kills.” She drove him with her hips, locked her eyes on his so that he couldn’t escape. “You think you’re the only one… whose demon is feeling stifled… living like this?” /Oh, God, you _aren’t_./ 

“Buffy…” he whispered around his fangs, and his hands fell helplessly to her ass. His head fell back to the bed as he briefly lost himself to their rhythm. 

“You know I can get as dark as you,” she whispered it. “Don’t put me on a pedestal. _Tell_ me.” She’d given him her shameful secret. He could share. She wouldn’t hate him. He could trust it.

 _“Fuck_ …” he muttered, groaning, and then the words were pouring out, even as he thrust jarringly up into her. “It wasn’t… anyone… in particular. Just me… on a bed… with someone… and bodies. I’d killed… There was blood… I’d had my glut… I was so damned _happy_ … Roaring… Free… And then I was…” He cut off.

“Fucking?” she finished for him, hips snapping, so near to what she needed.

“Oh, Christ…”

It was the closest thing she could come to the question. “Was it… a memory?”

His head turned from side to side on the bed, even as he drove up into her. “Is it worse… that I think… it was you?”

She halted abruptly to drag him up by his hair, stared him right into his terrified amber eyes, filled with their mixture of arousal and hunger and shame… and kissed him hard, right on his fanged-out mouth. “Since we were dreaming together, you better _damn_ well have been feeling me there, and not her.” And she shoved him back down to drag her nails, hard, over his chest. 

“Oh _fuck!”_ he roared, arched up into her, and came like fury. 

She was still driving herself on him, never more grateful for his unflagging erections in the face of shocking and painful stimuli as he groaned, dragged her hard, down against him with punishing fingers, digging viciously into her ass to pull her against him, and then… “Bloody fuck, Slayer…” And then one hand came loose to work her clit, and the other rose to one of her nipples, and, “Wish I could’ve seen your dream. Bloody well miss watching you hunt; you’re like poetry when you kill, all blood and fire and death…”

She fell back on one hand, rocking up into his touch. “You were there,” she gasped, sweat trickling past her brows now. She blinked it away irritably. “Just like I was there for you. You were… oh God. You were there with me…” Pushed up against him, gave in. “More,” she told him flatly, because she’d need it tonight, to finish.

And, because he was hers, he answered, flipping her till her head dangled over the foot of the bed. And then his nails were driving savagely into her shoulders and his fangs were pricking her throat; not in a bite that begged submission, but a challenge that made her want to drive a right cross into his face… and she realized vaguely that she was clawing at his back as she fell over the edge, while he chanted, over and over, “That’s right, Slayer, that’s right, that’s right,” and she clung to the very ferocity of his words, the demanding savagery of their mating. And, well, there had been a number of reasons why the bad parts of their affair had worked for them. A significant portion of both their selves had needed the violence, reveled in it. And they had long since gotten past believing that they had to stay away from all of that for it to be good. 

There was a whole lot to be said for a little madness in bed, when your demons were hungry. Some brutal sating was sometimes very much in order.

Buffy came back to herself to find that her head was still hanging over the edge of the bed, that she had sweated more over this than she did in most workouts… and that she might just be able to go back to sleep now, if she could maybe get more of herself back onto the mattress. “Sorry for waking you up,” she informed the cool lump half on and half off her chest, “but, you know, you looked like you could use it, too.”

“Holy fuck, Buffy…”

“You can go back to sleep now. Though, I kinda wanna get the rest of me back on the bed, first…”

He grunted and did some kind of vague maneuver she couldn’t follow, which ended in his wrapping his legs around her to keep them coupled, dragging her firmly up against him, and collapsing backward in the general direction of the head of the bed. “Fuck,” he muttered again.

“That was the general idea.”

“Mad bint.”

She yawned, abruptly exhausted, more than a little sore, stinging in several places… and far more contented than she had felt in quite some time. “That’s new… how?” She nudged him in the ribs. “Liar, anyway. You loved it.”

He grunted noncommittally.

“Liar,” she repeated, and slid a lazy hand south, making for terrain behind the real estate currently in use. “You know you don’t lie to me. If you do, you pay…”

He sighed and caught her hand. “Terrified me, there, Buffy,” he whispered into her nape. “What if…”

“No.”

He exhaled heavily, at a loss for words. She spread out her hand, safely on his belly, sighed in her turn. “Don’t you think some tiny part of me is still ashamed?”

He held his breath, managing to sound surprised at her admission. Which was dumb, since he knew damn well how she felt, now, about all of that extraneous killing without cause.

Doofus. “We both have urges. They’re built in. Mine are to indiscriminately murder demons. Yours are to carouse around with your food.” A yawn cracked her jaw, cutting off her thoughts mid-expression, and she picked up again on the inhale. “Big… fat duh. So, we don’t do it anymore. They’re still there. How is that shocking?” She poked him hard in the side with her index finger. “Why should you…” Another yawn. “…Be the only one to be all 'Mr. Ashamed About It'?”

He stilled even more, if that were possible… and then exhaled finally; an expression of relief. “I guess I just…”

“Well, don’t. Do you know how far past over it I am by now? Because you should.”

He was quiet for so long she thought he’d fallen asleep. She almost joined him, and heard his reply over the haze of semi-consciousness. “Yeah.” And then his arms tightened around her, and his face was in her hair as she hazed out. “Isn’t going anywhere, is it, though?”

It wasn’t. And that was likely going to be a whole other problem.

***

They were walking out along the beach together, hand in hand, not speaking as they pondered the current, possibly untenable situation together, wordless and troubled. When they had removed themselves, sought peace in pseudo-retirement, Buffy had never considered this wrinkle; the part where her adrenaline-junkie Slayer-side might end up screaming for stimulation, even as her traumatized human-girl-side reveled in the peace and quiet. And what the hell could they do about that? Where was the happy medium? 

And clearly Spike’s demon-y bits were starting to flip out too. The recent reminder of what it could be like to enjoy a little constructive mayhem had set them both off the chain… and Buffy was just now maybe starting to get why her guy been so screwed up over the whole draining Warren thing. It hadn’t been just about controlling the feeding urge deal. 

What he kept under wraps, all the time, to be with her, was monumental. Like a lion or a tiger or a wolf living on chicken from the freezer, and when it crunched down on the bones, all it could think about was what it felt like to crush a throat and feel blood pumping and have that burst of…

/Well, humans have that too. You spend millions of years running from everything, because you’re food. You’re full of all this fight or flight stuff, and then all the sudden you’re living these easy, safe lives, and the stupid adrenaline system doesn’t have anything to do. You’re not being chased by lions anymore, so it starts to atrophy and freak out, and that’s why scary movies and dumb things like bungee-jumping and skydiving and rollercoasters just to get a thrill, because you’re built to need that surge of adrenaline to stay healthy./ She could swear she remembered some kind of study from Psych class about how without occasional surges of adrenaline, people got sick or depressed or something. 

Weirdly, Buffy had never felt the draw to watch scary movies, or ride rollercoasters, never got the draw to skydive or any of that; even before she’d been Called. /Maybe because as a Potential, even, I was never in the same boat of needing to feel on the edge of death to feel alive. Maybe I work different. Maybe I always had to get my rush another way. Because predators have to be the same way. Without that shot of adrenaline that comes from the hunt, the kill, the system atrophies or whatever. And obviously I’m a predator too./ 

Definitely since she’d been Called, she’d gotten her jollies elsewhere. Who needed thrill-seeking when they were out every night fighting for their life and all that? /I have literally zero urge to go bungee-jumping, or surf, or go whitewater rafting… but I’m, no joke, dying to go murder something./ Clearly without the hunt and the kill… /Spike’s not the only one. So now I’m like this two-sided coin of nesting versus murder, and he’s kind of the same, because this is what he’s always wanted, with me—or, really, at all—and now he’s also go the soul in there cheering that part on… except to have it he can’t be what he is in that part of him that’s just starving to kill stuff, which…/ 

The whole reason they’d worked for so long in Sunnydale, and in Hell-A, after, had been because they’d had constant infusions of permissible demons to knock off, pretty much on the regular. It kept the system flowing. What they were doing now kind of stomped all over that whole casual violence vibe. /No more killing random demons in the name of Easter Sunday and puppies or whatever, right? Unless they’re seriously just chasing someone’s _abuela*_ down the street, which… Jeez, why is everyone so damn well- _behaved_ here?/ She could seriously go for a nice, straightforward, mid-season baby-harvest, right about now, or…

When Spike’s phone rang, they both jumped. Spike grumbled as he pulled it out, flipped it open, glanced at the screen, and then... “It’s the Bit,” he informed Buffy, sounding abruptly worried, and without relinquishing her hand, set the phone to ‘speaker’. “Hey, Niblet. How’s school?”

‘Am I on speaker?’

“Yeah. We’re takin’ you on a walk along the beach.”

‘Oh. Okay, good. It’ll save me having to tell all this to Buffy all over again.”

Well she knew those tentative-yet-determined tones. /Oh, crap./ Buffy set herself for something dramatic, and took in the view of the lights on the water, the stars over the Mediterranean, allowed a brief moment of peace to descend before the inevitable insanity that was a Dawn revelation. “Okay, lay it on us. What happened?”

‘Okay, why does it always have to be some kind of disaster? Maybe I just wanted to tell you guys something interesting that happened in my life.’

“Oh, jeez. Sorry.” /Why do I always manage to make her feel bad, or put her back up?/ 

Spike squeezed her hand in commiseration while he smoothly took over the conversation. “Don’t get into a verbal brawl with your sister, Platelet. Just tell us what’s the big news.”

A heavy sigh sounded over the tinny speaker, then, after a short hesitation. ‘So, I’m, um, dating someone.’

/Okay, and that’s cause for hesitation because…/ “Alright?”

The rest came out in a rush. ‘He’sreallycuteandsupersweethisname’sTimDoranhe’sAno-Movic. Or, at least, half Ano-Movic…’

Spike came to a halt on the firm beach sands, turned as if seeking a seat, and plopped himself abruptly down right then and there. Buffy followed suit, rubbing a hand over her face. “Okay, well, I mean, I’m glad he’s.. cute and sweet?” she tried.

A suspended moment in the conversation, then, ‘He really is. Super cute and sweet. He totally bends over backward for me. And his family is so much fun! I went to a Movic gathering last week, out at one of the parks—they can barbecue like you wouldn’t believe—the kids are so adorable, by the way…’

“Take a breath, Bit.” Spike sounded faintly amused under the slight tension that came of knowing his ‘Niblet’ was dating anyone at all.

Another short pause, then, ‘I just don’t want you guys to freak.’

“Well…” Buffy held her breath for a second, then let it out slowly. “I mean, if you had to go with anyone from the demon side of things, Movics are at least nice and peaceful. I mean, if it gets serious, there’re some really weird customs you’d need to watch out for, but…”

‘Oh, please, will you hold up? We’re barely past third base. Chill.’

Spike gave the impression of someone who really wished he could go deaf. “Use protection!” he bellowed out of nowhere.

The next silence took on a surprised note. ‘Why, can I get pregnant with…’

Cue one vampire swinging like a barn door from indulgent to fire-breathing impatience-verging-on-rage. “Bloody hell! Yeah, how’d you think he got to be a half-Movic in the first bloody place, you nit?”

Silence.

“But even if not, use a soddin’ rubber, Bit! You get venereal disease from a bloody Movic, and I’ll…”

‘He… He’s never…’

Spike dropped his face into his free hand. The conversation careened to a halt as he tugged the phone briefly away from his lap to crush it to his chest in an attempt to muffle it, and swung on Buffy to stare at her wild-eyed and harried. “She’s bloody well trying to murder me,” he informed her flatly, and then was back on the phone, all wound up and with his hair starting to curl and stand on end, and god, Dawn could absolutely drive him insane, couldn’t she? Buffy almost wanted to laugh, if she wasn’t equally concerned. “Well, you bloody well have!” Spike was ranting, now pretty thoroughly incensed at his ward’s blasé attitude. “You wanna give _him_ something? Thought you said you cared about the bloke!”

There was a profound pause. ‘Oh. I never… thought of that. Guess I should… go get checked out.’

Spike went from exasperated to withering. “Yeah. You do that. And get a prescription! Know they hand that shite out like candy at that bloody clinic down there at those colleges.” He roughed his hair up further, now looking dangerously close to ‘basement Spike’. “Christ. And till then, use sodding protection. You don’t, and I’ll force you to listen to stories about what the clap did to people in my day, before antibiotics...”

‘Okay, stop! I’ll get checked, and get on birth control, just stop talking!’

Buffy bit her lip and remained stoically silent, amazed afresh at their dynamic. If she’d been taking point in this conversation, things would already have unraveled spectacularly. Dawn would have long-since devolved to whatever the long-distance equivalent would be to a slammed door, screeching, mortified protests, and she, Buffy, would be making ultimatums about clinics and birth control. Instead Spike and his ‘Niblet’ were having a totally civil, logical discussion about VD and condoms. It made her brain explode sometimes, how they worked. 

“Yeah, you do that, Niblet. And till then use a condom anyway…”

‘Oh, like you two ever did,’ came the answering, sullen mutter.

“Oi! None of your sodding business, that! And an entirely other situation; apples and bloody oranges…”

‘Ha! That’s confirmation!’

Spike spluttered for a sec, then came back swinging. “Can’t get anyone pregnant, can I? Nor yet sick. Nothin’ lives on a bloke as has no heartbeat…”

‘I call technicality…’

And now they were back to infuriated. “Don’t pop off to me, Bit. An’ if you date a vamp next because you wanna bareback someone, you little menace…”

‘Oh, please. I’ll play the waiting game, and get on something. I’m with Tim.’ 

“Good, ‘cause if you ever turn up knocked up, or claimed by some sodding vamp, I’ll have your throat…”

Buffy buried her face in her hands, uncertain whether she was laughing or crying.

‘Okay, seriously. As if you two have _any_ room to talk…’

“Dawn!” he roared.

_‘What?’_

“Just tell me you’re happy, luv.”

‘Oh.” Dawn paused. “Yeah. I’m… I really am, Spike.’

“Well then, I’m glad, Bit.”

The conversation moved on after that to talk of school, her classes, her professors, the gossip of the dorms, that kind of thing. Buffy joined in here and there, though she mostly just lived vicariously through the fun her sister was having at school; the paradigm shifts in perspective on the world, the alterations in outlook, the sleepless excitement of being involved in fifteen clubs and groups, the activism, the color and excitement of peopleing and moving from one sphere to another on campus while she expanded her mind. 

God, she missed it, wished she had had the chance to really do it. To invest in it fully, while she had had the time; without, of course, the constant specter of slaying to keep her only ever with one toe in school life. She hadn’t had the time for the clubs and all that, and now her moment was past. Now it was Dawn’s time. She was grateful to hear that her sister seemed to be making the most of it. It was right that she should be having the time of her life. “I’m so glad you’re having so much fun, Dawnie,” Buffy put in as the call wended to a close. “Enjoy it. Please.”

There was a short hesitation from the other end of the line, then, ‘Maybe you could go back someday, Buffy?’

Buffy nodded, though she rather doubted it. Her life had taken such a wild u-turn from that path that it just seemed impossible sometimes. “Yeah. Maybe.” /I’d have to learn a lot more Spanish, first. Ha, ha. ‘Cause that’s gonna happen, me picking up enough of some language to function at a college level, with essays and crap./ She heard herself sigh regretfully.

Even with their minutes paid for by the Organization, via Xander’s tender offices, they couldn’t run up the bill forever. The call eventually ended, and Spike shoved the phone back into his pocket, eyes never leaving the side of Buffy’s head. She knew what he was thinking, and avoided his gaze to watch the lights play over the water. 

Finally he caught her wrist, gave it a little tug. “We’ll figure it out, Love. Anytime you want to go back.”

“I know,” she heard herself answer, and fought to shrug it off. “It just seems like something that, if it ever does happen for me, would be way off in the future, you know? Not really a part of our lives now. And we’ve got all the big stuff coming roaring back in, and we live where we live, and…” She shrugged again, this time visibly.

“I can’t stand to hear that hurt in your voice, Buffy,” he answered softly, low and pained. “I hear you yearning for something that was stolen from you, and I wanna go out, kill whatever needs killing, cut the head off of any dragon standing in your way, bring the world to your doorstep on a string…” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Bloody well know you can fight your own battles, but it kills me to hear you hurting. It puts me on my soddin’ knees.”

She felt the faint smile touch her lips, reached out, fumbled for his hand. “I know. And I really, really love you for it. And I know we’ll get to it someday, now I know I have all this time.” /Which is really kind of an insane thought./ Facing life, knowing that, barring death—always a possible specter, considering the life she lived—it now stretched out before her in an endless panorama of possibilities… It was tough to alter her perspective from ‘only have a few years, every missed opportunity was a one-off, never to come again, tomorrow I may die’. Clearly her future as a willing hostage in the demon world might put paid to some of her options in the short-term, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she couldn’t lead her own life outside of that role. It was, in a way, much less of a job than slaying on a hellmouth had been. In its own way, it might even be safer. And considering she had bargained for more of a lifespan, with more Slayers in the world, than she had ever had before… /Maybe I really will have the time, someday, to get to actually fill it with things like that. Things I _want_ to do. Places I want to go and see, ideas I want to explore…/

Like choosing a home, the very idea seemed vast and overwhelming, in a way that having long since accepted her own short and insistent mortality had not, which had become so very commonplace a reality. The concept of ‘leisure to live her own life, someday’, seemed too huge to fathom, where early death had become a close personal friend; almost comforting in its familiarity. 

Shaking her head, she folded her fingers in his as she pushed it out to sea. Time to let the option go for now, at least; like a toy boat or one of those floating Japanese lanterns she’d seen in a picture in _National Geographic_ , all gorgeous and floating away on the water. “After all, it sounds like I’m gonna need to find a way to pass the time in there somewhere, right? Since we’re gonna have decades to fill up?” And she let the smile widen as she watched the water, avoiding his eyes. “Eventually you’ll get so tired of me you’ll send me off to school just to have some time to yourself.”

He scoffed dismissively. “You mean, I’ll follow you about and beg you to let me enjoy it vicariously through you, since my school days are so far off they’re a bloody figment, and I’ll have more fun watching you write essays than you’ll have readin’ the stuff to write ‘em…”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Knowing you, that’s probably way true.” Sighing, she laid her head on his shoulder. “At least I’ll have this nice, built-in proofreader around.”

He lifted her hand in his and kissed the back of it, silent and willing. Eventually, “We’ll figure it, Buffy.”

“I know.” His confidence was certain enough for the both of them.

They had turned inland and were headed home when it happened. The ethereal form, sliding out from between the trees, hidden there in the small copse to the right. Satin-white and ivory, dark hair, dark eyes like voids in the night. Dreamy, mazy words, whispering to them to perk memory to life, and bring them to the consciousness that the past would never be far away, even as they looked into their long future. “Bad dogs write new histories on blank pages, and forget the old tales. Burnt away to ashes, old lives curling in flames, all blue with blackened edges, powdery and sizzling…”

Spike went absolutely still, frozen with the certitude that rang through him. Buffy joined him, holding her breath. They both knew that voice.

His sire had finally come to call. 

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I guess it's just Drusilla week in my small corner of the 'verse.  
  
(Quote by Marie Curie)  
  
 _abuela_ = grandmother.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Hopefully this chapter, which is a working-over of a comics thing, isn't too controversial. I stand by it based on my character-reads.  
> :-)

**S:  
  
**

The spectre in pale ivory resolved itself from the shadows; a dream he had forgotten to dream for a bloody half-decade coalescing to dance closer with ethereal steps, hands held out. “And the Slayer…” she moaned as she approached. “Nasty Sunshine. Made it so I cannot feel you.” 

Her pain could still jolt him to the core, her regret still capable of twisting him with old agony. She sidled closer, waltzing with the cool evening air, and lifted one long-fingered hand to her lips with eyes wide with unshed tears. “You’re not mine anymore! My Spike! She’s stolen you!” 

And, demon to the fore, she launched herself abruptly at Buffy, her fingers hooked into claws. 

/Oh, bloody hell./

He was moving, of course, to intercept his mad sire. Buffy had her hands up as well, to catch the other woman, and so forestalled Dru first. Oddly, he felt nothing from his mate beyond a sort of distant sorrow on her behalf, which was… interesting. As if she could almost feel compassion for the vampire who had lost out in this equation. 

Well. Whether-or, Spike wasn’t about to make this Buffy’s problem. Before she had to work too damned hard to deflect Dru’s attack, Spike interposed himself between them to field his former, caught her by her arms, let her slide impotently down his chest. “It’s good to see you, Dru,” he answered her rantings softly. “Probably best you don’t start off the reunion by attackin’ the Slayer, though, yeah? Keep it all civil, pet.”

Course, Dru went on glaring murder over his shoulder at Buffy, and snarling fit to earn herself a swift dusting, because she was off her bloody bird. “You! You are a thief. You burned his heart, and now you take his blood and make it yours…”

/Oh, hell./

“Well, you know,” Buffy answered all sodding nonchalant, and shrugged off the accusation. “He was offering…”

/Christ, I love you, Buffy. Even when you make things ten times worse./ His love could make even a drawling bit like that sound like a quip on wheels.

Dru immediately set up a sharp hissing, offended as all hell that the Slayer would take her accusation with such insouciance. “Buffy, bloody hell. Do you have to make it sodding worse?” With the way his sire was struggling against him to fly at his mate, Spike was rapidly coming to the end of his fucking tether. Dru had always been jealous of his feelings for the Slayer; possibly since Buffy had been bloody well born, now he thought of it. He vaguely recalled a moment back in January of eighty-one when, out of nowhere, Dru had attacked him one frigid night on the way out from a Punk show, probably around four AM, and ripped the piercings right out from his sodding nipples, screaming at him all the while that the pixies were wrong, and he was still hers. He’d lay money now that that had been the very hour an infant Buffy had slid screaming from out between Joyce’s thighs.

Dru just knew that kind of fucking shite.

“Well, I mean, she’s right,” Buffy went on unhelpfully. “I am kind of guilty of the first part, so she’s being fair.”

“Oh, for chrissake…” Holding his spitting sire off him, Spike exhaled voluminously and ducked beneath her flying claws to catch her burning amber eyes. He had to head off a bleedin’ battle royale, here, did he want to keep Dru from getting her arse dusted by the other great love of his bloody life. “Listen, Dru. You can see I’m not ashes anymore, yeah? So let’s let all that go and start over. Right? How’ve you been, luv?”

He was answered with a low, keening moan. Arrested by his gaze, Dru promptly crumpled against his chest. “My knight went to the wrong side of the board. Left his Dark Queen… White Queen wins hearts by force. The Dark Queen wins hearts by guile…”

Spike exhaled gustily in exasperation. /At least she’s given over trying to fight Buffy. Fucksake./ Reprieved for the nonce, he released one of his sire’s hands, gestured behind him for Buffy to come around and join him in securing her. “Christ. You don’t win hearts by force or guile, Dru. You win them with love, and mine’s been owned right out…”

As Buffy circled around the pair to meet him at Drusilla’s side, moving warily, Dru shook her head, all caught up in her oracular madness once more. “Dark and rotten, sweet heart. Eat it up, dark and rotten…”

/Hell./ Spike winced as he tugged her gently around to a nearby bench, offset to the path along the verge of the beach. “Not anymore, Dru. Here, pet. Have a seat and let’s us all get reacquainted, yeah?”

Buffy moved silently to bracket their visiting vampire, eyes briefly touching on his as she did so. From what he read there, she would willingly take her cues from him in this business. At least, now she would. For which he was grateful, since all she’d done earlier was make things bloody worse. Nice to have her acknowledge his expertise in managing his sire. After all, he should bloody well know how to read the woman he’d spent a century and a quarter loving. 

Problem was, he wasn’t at all sodding sure why Dru had picked now, of all times, to show. The bond had been in place for months, so that couldn’t have been the impetus. If it had been closing the claim that had set her off, one might think she’d have been up their arses sometime last summer, or in the autumn. At least in the very second they had come to roost. He couldn’t imagine she should have had that difficult a time tracking them down, whether their link had been severed or no. She could still no doubt feel a faint echo from him, if nothing else; enough to gather the general area of the world in which he’d settled. Unless the soul also bunged it up badly enough that she hadn’t been able to locate him at all, put together with the claim. Which, he supposed, might be the case, considering sodding Angel hadn’t been able to locate them, with his whole fucking Twilight bullshittery. Though, with him it was once removed, thank fucking Christ, or who knew where they’d be at the moment.

/Still. If it was all that that made it tough for her to find us, how’d she find us now?/ 

Atop of all that, fuck. Something about the way his sire was acting… 

Something had her really fucking agitated; something beyond frustration that Buffy had replaced her in the family hierarchy; which, granted, ought to feel real fucking odd to her, whether she’d long since resigned herself to his having rehomed his heart or no. She was only ever this edgy when the pixies had her off her fucking trolley more than usual, or something outside herself was otherwise driving her. She wasn’t at standard, station-keeping level Dru-mad. She was at a higher-than-standard level of off her fucking bird, and that worried him.

He knew his eyes were troubled as he flashed them to meet Buffy’s gaze over his sire’s head. /Why now? Why the bloody hell now?/

Buffy’s eyes returned the message, equally concerned, but telegraphed that she would follow his lead as he sussed it out. That she was just the backup singer in this little number; for which he was sodding well grateful. 

“No…” Dru moaned, rocking a little, and eyed him up and down as if scanning him for some sort of runic markings that only she could read. “Dripping in wholesomeness it is. Isn’t it? It sings now, like the nightingale does.” And out of bloody nowhere, she began to sob; low, wrenching cries that pulled at Spike’s heart, god help him. “What has she done to you, my prince?” Her face devolved back to her human visage, and went all pouty. “White Queen always wins if she moves first; but the Dark Queen wins with cunning, and wins as often. Black will use her wiles to bring him back…”

/Bloody fuck./ He could practically hear Buffy’s irritation, to one side, and this was not going to go well if he let Dru go on in this vein. “Dru…”

Buffy interrupted in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Look, Dru,” she interposed, speaking in a softer voice than he could credit coming from his Slayer when speaking to his sire, and when the fuck had she begun to use his nickname, anyway, rather than calling her by her full name? 

To his further amazement, she actually leaned forward to pat the cool hand lying between them as she went on. “I know you’ve been lonely, and I’m sorry.” He could actually hear, as well as feel, how difficult it was for her in this moment to restrain her frustration; to be compassionate. But she was doing it. “But the fact of the matter is, he’s _my_ Champion now. I got his papers from the Powers. He’s the warrior who fights by my side; my lieutenant, my counselor. So yeah. I’m sorry. I can’t give him back. He’s given himself to me, and it’s kinda a non-refundable gift…”

“Was mine first. I made him. Made him to be my knight…”

Buffy froze, and pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry, Dru,” she repeated, but now her voice was like cold steel. “I know you did, but he’s mine now, and you’ll pry him from my cold, dead hands!”

/Oh, Christ./ God knew he loved being loved and wanted, but the last thing he needed right now was for the two women he’d loved most in the sodding universe to get into a catfight over him; much as it might be good for his formerly starved bloody ego. “Alright, let’s just hold up. Fuck.” Spike took up the pale hand Buffy had dropped, fitted it between his, patted it with tender consolation. “You can’t have me, Dru, is the thing,” he soothed. “Whatever wiles you might bring to bear, it’s not gonna happen. And you weren’t my queen. You were my Dark Princess, yeah, but…”

Dru tilted her head up at him, an expression of sweet remembrance touching her eyes, her lips. “Used to bring me favors, bear mine into battle. Bright hearts, bright bodies, bright, sweet toys… But now you bear hers, fight in her name. You’ve gone to the White Queen. All cold, she is…”

Spike felt Buffy flinch at the accusation; a strike right to the core of one of the sore spots now mostly healed, but still tender, between them. How Dru knew that Buffy still felt guilty for that half a year—how she could know about any of it—was anyone’s guess, but… /Bloody pixies./ “It hasn’t been…”

Buffy was furious in her shame. “You bitch,” she hissed, low and angry, but there was a hitch in the back of her voice that said she was fighting back tears, oh Christ. “You know I’m better to him now. How can you come here and throw that in my face, when we haven’t… When I haven’t…”

Spike felt suddenly extremely weary as he slipped a hand free to lay it over the back of Buffy’s neck; to cool her, comfort her. She closed her eyes at his touch, fighting for equilibrium. “Dru, that’s long past. It hasn’t been like that between us in a long bloody time. And she isn’t cold. She’s warm, now.” He turned his gaze to meet Buffy’s, let his certitude melt her furious agony, burn it away. “Warm and here and right.”

“Too hot. She burns you. Couldn’t touch you, my knight; couldn’t save you. You burned all over; burned me all up… Burned to ashes…”

Spike tore his eyes away from Buffy’s stricken gaze, sighed heavily. Buffy was shaking her head, staring into her hands. “Okay, so there’s just no way to win with you, I guess,” she muttered. “No pleasing the crazy mistress of the dead.”

Spike shook his head, fighting not to grin in spite of the gravity of the moment, he so enjoyed his love’s ability to quip in spite of pain, and lifted a hand to brush her cheek. “She’s just fighting back the only way she has left, Love, and you know it. You might consider it a compliment, that she’s that desperate.”

Buffy frowned at that, straightened, firming up. He sent her a glance that begged patience, then, when he was sure she understood, was back on stable ground, lifted his hand away to rub briefly between his eyes with one thumb-knuckle. And breathed in patience. And turned back to his sire, who was convinced that her having relinquished custody of him to the Slayer had been the worst possible decision she could have made. Which, from her perspective, made a lot of bloody sense, considering the whole ‘turned into a sodding pyre’ business. “I know I burnt up, Dru. But I came back, innit?” And he lifted his free hand to turn it to her, in the moonlight. Under the bright, silver glare, the scars there, the prints left behind by Buffy’s hand were as visible to vampire eyes as if she had stamped him hers; a tattoo made of fleshy filigree. “Back, and marked as hers…”

Drusilla jerked away, quailing. And then she let out a long, low moan with a rattle at the end, as if all the breath she had ever drawn had been pressed from her. 

It was a sound built of defeat. Spike found himself exhaling in regret as he acknowledged what this visit must have taken from the woman who had made him what he was—at least, before Buffy had taken him in hand and finished the job. “So, what’s the reason for the visit, luv? It’s been a bloody long time since Buffy and I closed the claim…”

“Yeah,” Buffy broke in, clearly ready to get to the bottom of things. “Is it, like a social call, or what?”

Spike sensed the interloper before Buffy could hear his footfalls. Understandable, considering she’d not sense a human on approach. His head jerked up a millisecond before hers did, alerted by the faintest crackle of underbrush, the whiff of scent on the skirl of breeze from off the water. Human, yes; male, adult, wearing cologne and… There was something else, as well. Something that smelled faintly of… magicks, maybe?

Spike tensed, a millisecond before a figure resolved from the shadows of the copse behind them; human, as expected, long-haired and a bit mad-looking in his own right. “I convinced her to come,” the fellow informed them in low, slightly harsh tones.

Spike did not relinquish Dru’s hand, but remained still as only a vampire could in such circumstances. “Who the bloody hell are you?” he demanded.

“A friend,” their visitor bit off. His eyes glittered at them in the dark. He had a look about him that Spike knew all too well. 

This was a fucking sociopath. 

Just bloody great.

A frisson went through him in that instant, from Buffy, telling him that she, too, had a sudden and very bad feeling about this chance meeting. /Good, then. We’re on the same page./ Nice to know their instincts spoke the same language even when it was a human who was the threat.

“Okay. A friend.” Buffy sounded as if she most definitely did not believe it as she dropped her gaze to Dru. “He’s your pet or something?” she queried, casual-like, of his former.

Dru’s head tilted slightly, and she acquired that faint, otherworldly sort of smile on her face that said she was hearing a message from elsewhere. She began to hum. “I needed someone to look after me…” she murmured.

/Oh, fuck./ Spike felt his own expression tighten. /When the bloody hell did you ever keep a human about to care for you, Dru?/ 

/What the sodding fuck _is_ this?/ 

Best get on with it, though, or they’d never suss it out. “Right. So. Who do we have the pleasure of meeting, then?”

“Name’s John.”

/Right. As in, the flush bloody toilet, or Jacob Jingleheimer? Want to give us some more to bloody go on, you dunce?/ 

“That’s it?” Buffy demanded on the heels of his thoughts. She sounded equally miffed over the lack of information. 

“Enough for now.”

Spike really didn’t like the way this was going. The bloke didn’t smell right, and it wasn’t like Dru to keep a human about without eating him or turning him into a minion. The fact of the matter was, no human could ever make for an appropriate caretaker for his former. They weren’t strong enough, nor could they ever match her hungers. It made no sense, and hell. The whole thing just felt sodding _wrong_. 

What sort of hold could this tosser have over her, for her to have let him have control over the situation like this, and stay human, and… And feel as if he were in charge of the bloody situation? 

/What the fuck is going on, here?/

“Colorful,” Buffy allowed, meeting Spike’s gaze from the periphery. Her eyes agreed with his assessment that there was something very bloody wrong on. She could tell as well as he could that this bastard was no vamp. That this was in no way Dru’s usual scam, and, moreover, that whole bloody thing was, in her parlance, freaking him the hell out. She would no doubt feel it on their bond. Easy enough to do so, considering at mo’ he was taut and jittery as if he had been punched in the gut wholly unexpectedly. 

“How’d you two meet?” Buffy inquired gamely.

“That’s a story for another time,” the mystery man ground out. “What interests me is, I found out she knew _you_.” And his dark eyes glittered hate at Spike through the gloom.

/Well, isn’t that fucking special. What the bloody fuck do you want from me, then?/

Drusilla reached out to touch Spike’s face with fingertips the same temperature as his own flesh, making him start slightly, he’d been so focused on the human bloke’s visage and speech. “You were supposed to light my dark,” she informed him gravely.

/Alright. Surely. What the bloody hell are you on about now?/ “She needed me to light hers. Sorry, pet.”

Dru’s eyes and expression never altered in their odd, certain regard. “You used to have your own light shining about you, Spike. My Spike, my knight, shining in the dark. But now you’re all filthy with the spark, burning you up; more than the light you were. Got all free from behind the lampshade. You’ve unpinned the oilskin from the window of your mind, and all the blinding thing is shining through.” To his alarm, she had tears standing in her eyes now, and looked tormented by the very thought of his human soul living in there next to the other. “Now you’re too bright. You can’t see in the dark anymore.”

As well she might, he supposed, considering what it had been like for her, tussling about inside herself for custody of whichever bit of her was ascendant that day. /So, what? You’ve come to save me from myself, is it? Christ, Dru; don’t you know that it’s different for me than it is for you? Than it was for Peaches? Mine’s no curse, for one. I chose it. And, yeah. I may be a vamp from a whole soddin’ family all fucked up by mixin’ with our souls; but where Angel’s was forced on him, and sired Lawson the way he did and fucked him all up, and yours has been all jammed in there next to the rest of the mess like soddin’ sardines—and who the bloody fuck knows how that affected how I was made—mine’s come out alright in the wash. I might even have found it easier to connect to mine all this time, because you made me, and you were different. Hell; I might be easier with my mix, now, ‘cause it was you sired me. But I’m not wrong./

He smiled into his sire’s eyes, belying the pain he saw in there for her. It was a trial for her, the way she was all bunged up with souls, fighting it out. /It’s not like that for me, Dru. I’ve enough room for all of them. I was only mad because I had the First tormenting me. I can accept who I was, and am; then and now. As long as she wants to take me on, and accept herself; all of who we were and are, then I’m right. And I need it. I need access to both sides of me, to be one with someone who’s also two-sided. So we can understand each other. You mightn’t see it, but it’s not too bright, for me. It’s a way to look into the sun without being blinded, and to curl up in the light without dusting./ “Oh, I can still see, Dru,” he told his sire, feeling almost amused by her accusation. “I just have to squint a bit.”

Beside him, Buffy rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Yeah; and no offense, sweetheart, but he chose it. Which means you’re not gonna be able to pull a Darla and try to screw it out of him, if that’s what you’re hoping for, with this little reunion…”

Spike snorted dryly, amused at the very thought. /Not Peaches, for sure, or I’d’ve long since lost the damned thing; every bloody time she bites me. Talk about perfect sodding happiness; Christ!/

Drusilla ignored the interruption. “Oh, no… You don’t see at all, my knight…”

/Oh, hell./

“And he won’t,” the mysterious ‘John’ put in, sounding deeply satisfied by the turn the conversation had taken.

“What the fuck are you on about, you dolt?” Feeling unsettled, Spike drew back from his sire to look from her to her human companion, before dismissing the latter briefly. “Look. I’m that sorry about it, Dru; that you’ve been so lonely you’ve had to take on a human sod like him to get on. But I’m not yours anymore. You left me.” He lifted his eyes to her human minion, still hovering there in the shadows at the edge of the path. “But…” /Be fair. You haven’t had to make her choices./ “I’m glad she has someone to look after her. God knows her Daddy’ll never come back and clean up his mess…” At his side, Dru let out a little, pained whimper. Which was to be expected, and he sighed as he turned back to her. “Sorry pet, but it’s true. He’s never coming back.” He nodded again at the man who’d accompanied her. “Be good to her, yeah?” 

“I’m gonna be.” The man stepped a little further out from the trees, resolving from the shadows. He appeared to be holding something before him in both hands, and his voice sounded harsh with determination and hate. “I’m gonna heal her.”

Spike felt another frisson of wrongness strike him broadside. It was joined by same from Buffy, running up her spine in a powerful chill. It confirmed the instinct in him that said this entire situation was truly fucked off. 

It all just felt fucking wrong. The entire MO was off, from the not-minion, to Dru’s waiting so long to come to them, to the way her human attendant was acting. Every bit of it. 

Off to the other side of Dru, Buffy moved to slide off the bench, to come to her feet, in response to what she would no doubt call her ‘Spidey-sense’; her ‘feeling of not-okayness’. He didn’t half blame her, considering, and put aside Drusilla’s hands to stand at with her and face the interloper. “Oh, yeah?” he inquired flatly. “How do you plan to do that, then?”

“We didn’t come back just to see you, my knight,” Drusilla murmured at his back. She had dropped now into her standard singsong of pre-mayhem glee, oh Christ. “We came to steal the spark from you.” 

The unexpected pronouncement hit him hard. Stunned, Spike reeled back, almost stumbling into Buffy. “Wait, what?” Buffy demanded, on top of Spike’s, “Dru, you bloody well can’t just…”

“Oh, we will,” ‘John’ interrupted, gloating now, and moved a step closer. “You stole my soul from me, when you got yours.” His voice writhed between them, full of hate. “I can’t enjoy anything anymore! I don’t _feel_ anything! When I sink a knife into someone, it’s like stabbing a rug. I can’t enjoy killing, can’t enjoy life…” 

/What the bloody fuck…/ Spike was still reeling. How the hell could this tosser think Spike had somehow stolen some other asshat’s soul? 

“You have to have a soul,” the prat babbled on, sounding exalted, “to enjoy destroying other people’s! If I get mine back I can be a real good partner to her.” And a truly foul smile crossed the man’s mad countenance. “We’ll take the world by storm; a new whirlwind of blood and debauchery…”

“Singing the names of the dead,” Dru chipped in dreamily, “while the blood dances us on waltzes of screams…”

Christ. Dru merely wanted a new partner to join her in the dance of killing and blood, and why not a human serial killer, if she couldn’t have him. Fuck, she really must be lonely, if she was willing to let a human alone, right next to her, day in and day out, just to have someone at her side who matched her bloodlust.

“All I have to do is heal her…”

Somewhat regaining his equilibrium, Spike managed a grim-faced, derisive snort. “Oh yeah? Good bloody luck with that. I tried it for a hundred twenty bloody long years, just the same sodding way. Didn’t take. You keep on pouring your love into that black hole, mate. Won’t heal the damage her daddy did. Best accept her as she is and love her for it.” His voice turned bleak in spite of himself. “‘S What I learned to do. You’ll be the happier for it… and so will she. And as to the other…”

“No,” John answered bleakly… and then his tones turned to rapture. “I’m going to do one better. I’m gonna give her a ripe, rotten soul that won’t torment her at all. One she can use like mine, to enjoy every second of the killing…”

/Yeah, sure you are./ Scoffing, Spike rolled his eyes, about done with this nonsensical charade. “What, you think you can just pick one up for her at the corner market? ‘Used Souls R Us’?”

“No,” John sneered back, interrupted in his little wankoff fantasy. His eyes blazed. “I figured we’d take yours.” 

The move was clearly a reflexive, automatic one. Buffy was in front of him before either of them could remotely think. “Okay, wait. What the hell…”

Spike, though, surprisingly, found himself _laughing_. “This has got to be some sort of sodding joke. Is this the Spanish version of _Candid_ fucking _Camera_ , only for bleedin’ demons?” This idiot was so incredibly behind the times, so stupidly out of his league, it was actually funny.

John wasn’t laughing. “I’m going to tear that soul out of you,” he answered, flat, fierce, and intent. “The one you stole from me, and I’m going to use it to knock the one out of her that’s making her nuts. I’m going to take hers for myself so I can feel again, wild and crazy and free… and then we can take the world by storm. It’ll be _all_ ours…”

“Wow,” Buffy muttered, sounding amazed. “You are really just absolutely nutso. You know that? None of this works the way you…”

“The right kind of soul,” the tosser went on, sounding ecstatic. “The kind that’ll fix the damage.” 

Well, fuck. He didn’t look as if he’d listen to reason, either. He was wild-eyed, insane and fervid, his stance and entire bloody mien reading zealous believe in his mad theory. Telling the sod that said belief didn’t make one jot of bleeding sense wouldn’t help. “Not a good one,” the idiot went on, drawing out each word as if he were savoring the fucking things. “A nice, nasty one that won’t cause her any trouble.” And his eyes rose, burning, to fix on Spike’s. “ _Mine_. The one you stole from me…” And he was back to stroking his phrases like they were old sodding friends. “One that’s been around the block a time or two…”

“Lollipops and tigers…” Dru murmured, sounding like she was hearing distant music.

“Bloody hell,” Spike scoffed, now thoroughly concerned about this whole bleeding situation. One madwoman to talk down, that was one thing. Two nutters in one night was entirely another; both of them bloody well dangerous. Good thing one of them was human, or they might well be in fucking trouble. “First off, I have no soddin’ clue what the fuck makes you think I’ve your idiot soul in me…”

“Pretty lawyers in the City of Sin, freed him and told him how to get back what he wanted… And how I could find my tarnished knight…”

“Oh, shit,” Buffy murmured. “Crap, does that mean those asshats are still mad that we helped with the Hell-A thing, or do you think they’re trying to help those Twilight bastards?”

Spike was all over chills by now. “Fuck. If it was the latter, they’d’ve sent sodding Angel. We’ve done enough to brass them off with the hell business…” /Why the fuck did we think we’d done ‘em in just because they left LA? Obviously they’ve offices in other cities; hell!/

“True. Still, to send some jackass human criminal after us with some stupid idea that he could rip your soul out and… do whatever… Like how does he even think…”

“Hell if I know.” Spike was whirling. Those Wolfram and Hart pricks were an enemy they had utterly discounted, after Hell-A. /Like we fucking need another, right now, innit? Christ!/ “Look,” he informed the prat staring at him now, all hollow-cheeked and burning-eyed. “Thing is, I dunno what those lawyer-boys told you, but it’s a lie. I’ve me own soul and no other sod’s.” /For one thing, it just made not one bit of bloody sense! “What, you think the tosser I seen to get it back just handed me one he dusted off from a bin somewhere? He gave me _mine_ , you bellend! Wouldn’t’ve fit, otherwise!” What a goddamn nit. “Hell, they don’t even go that far off in the first bloody place, to be getting’ lost in the ethers like that, so you can get ‘em mixed up with someone else’s or some other bloody idiot shite you’ve been told. I _can’t_ get yours, you can’t get mine.” /Christ, where did they get such a load of toff?/ “Which means, second off, this is a terrible fucking idea.” /Fucking hell./ “How the hell you think you’re gonna knock the thing loose from me, much less what Dru’s got in her? It’s _mine!_ Well-worn an’ all...”

The man with the mad eyes brandished the object he’d been holding. It was, now Spike spared a moment to study it, a strange, intricately carved wooden box, inlaid on top with, of all idiot things, a bleedin’ eyeball. “This spell’ll do it. It’ll take yours from you. Slam it into her. Knock hers loose. It’ll go right into me. If that doesn’t work it’ll split yours and grow the halves like a cut worm. Give it to her… and to me. Just enough to go around…” The madness seemed to be growing in his eyes; burning there, like a brand.

/Oh, Christ, a spell./ Of _course_ they wouldn’t send him here without ammunition. Not those bastards. The pricks had sent him over here armed with a sodding spell. No doubt a strong and accurate one, considering, though he rather doubted it did exactly what the wanker thought it did, considering none of it really worked like he thought it did. Still, it’d do plenty of damage; and to more than just him. /Those _fuckers!_ / 

This, of course, would be the source of the faint magicks odor he’d caught a moment ago. And, fuck. If he used the thing correctly…

Spike staggered back, away from them, as the realization struck. They might just manage it, and the recognition felt like a blow from fucking Glory, or that bleedin’ troll hammer or summat. /He wants to use magicks to rip away the soul I use to understand Buffy; take mine away and keep it, use it to kill humans, and to jam his, jam another into… into Dru, like she’s not bloody well suffering enough!/ Christ; that would drive his sire right round the twist, smack away any remaining shreds of sanity she might have managed to gather in the intervening years. And she had precious little as it was to cling to! Hell. As if she had that much room left inside her for any more fucking tatters of soul, either; fuck! 

This bloke was insane beyond compare, and functioning off of a fundamental misunderstanding of how things worked, to boot, and he had to _stop_ this! If not for himself and Buffy, since he felt sure that even without the soul, Buffy would still love him—she had made it clear she had, even before, though it wouldn’t be as easy—but certainly for Dru’s sake! This would destroy her. She was barely holding it together as it was. And in any case… he didn’t want to cope with another fucking alteration to his being. He had had enough fucking upheavals to his identity, his sense of self, in the last couple of years. He was just getting himself back to an even keel, didn’t need another assault to his character, his functionality. /We’re happy, the way we are! I’ve _earned_ this, and no way you’re taking it away from me! If I ever wanted to knock that damned soul away from me, I’d do it myself, not have some prick like you…/ 

Aside from the fact there was Buffy’s theory to account for, as well, that said maybe it had never entirely gone, but had merely stayed bound up at the back of his being somewhere; and what would it do to him to have it reft entirely from him? Without it, would he be the same creature she had come to love, even before it had been set to the fore of him?

He couldn’t take that chance, of being changed utterly, or becoming something like Angelus had been, or… Not that his demon didn’t love her desperately, but there was also behavior to consider, and decision-making, and it was just the hell of a lot easier to be himself, as he was here and now. To be the devil he knew, rather than to risk the one he didn’t. He knew how to manage even when his demon was to the fore, these days, when he had that voice at the back of his mind reminding him what was the best road to take to keep his place with Buffy secure. 

With the soul ever at his back, he didn’t need Buffy to be the one to remind him of things like that. Which was only fair. She shouldn’t have to be his conscience, or wait through his having to sort it all out by trial and fucking error. And, hell. /It’s mine, either way. Has been since I was human. It’s not some other sod’s; definitely not yours, you insane git! They’re not fucking interchangeable, so you don’t get to steal it from me because you believe it’s gonna help make you a better sodding killer, you nit!/

Out of nowhere Buffy caught him, clutched his hand hard in hers, and… And he could feel the uncertainty in her. And he realized in that moment that she hadn’t spoken up, yet. Not once, in defense of his soul. Which… Yes, she had automatically stepped in front of him, when the man had brandished the box; an instinctive ‘No way in hell am I going to let this happen’… but it was clear from her very uncertainty now that she felt like it wasn’t her place to intervene if he… 

Fuck. She wasn’t sure if he might want the thing gone, or bound up again, or whatever the bloody hell that spell did. Which… It was one thing if the latter was all it did, but it didn’t sound like, or it wouldn’t do what this man thought it would. It sounded like it would rip the thing away entire. 

Buffy’s eyes on his, gleaming now with unshed tears, and… 

She’d said it once, lying with him, regret in her eyes. _“It hurts you. I know it. Sometimes, it hurts you.”_

_“It doesn’t,”_ he’d answered back. _“It… teaches me. Sometimes lessons can hurt, but without pain there is no growth.”_

He still believed that. Moreover, he had no idea what this thing would do, to more people than just him. It just wasn’t worth the risk.

“If this happens,” Buffy whispered now, eyes firm on his, “you’ll still be the man I love. And maybe… you’ll be safer?”

/Oh, fuck./ She was backing away, now, stepping out from between him and the tosser with the box. Reconsidering protecting him as was her first instinct, him being her mate. 

“I wouldn’t care,” she insisted, tears now standing in her gorgeous eyes. “I want you to know, that if you want…” So intense, locked on his gaze. “I would still love you. I loved you before. I know you were already this man I loved, who fought to be what I needed. Who was a good man, and the vampire who did everything he could do to be mine. So… Whatever you want, Spike.” 

Over there, beyond her, the pillock with the box was drawing some sort of circle round him on the ground with some bloody thing or other, making it stand out like orange fire, and oh, Christ…

“I won’t leave,” Buffy assured him. His mate, certain and weeping for the choice he had to make, but ready for whatever he decided. “I’d still want you, and we’d still be us. You could let it…”

Shaking his head, Spike reached out, caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “It’s mine,” he insisted in matching tones, saw her surprise, her awe. Then he lifted his eyes away, firmed his voice. He kept his gaze on the circle, a preternatural shiver working its way up his spine as the thing slowly closed round the psychotic fucker with the box. “It wouldn’t fit her. Not that the spell you’ve got likely even works the way you think. Most like, you’d have to get someone to unchain her own bloody one; which believe you me, would be the hell of a more complicated process for her than it was for yours truly…”

The man narrowed his eyes, looking pissed off behind his growing curtain of flame. “You can’t lie to me to keep what you stole. This is what we came here to do and we’re gonna do it…”

“Like hell you will,” Spike spat, and now every ounce of his uncertainty was gone. He was dead set against the entire prospect. Buffy’s words, the look in her eyes had clinched it for him. 

It was his choice. And that made it right. 

He could feel his love blinking at him, more than a little surprised at his vehemence. She was still a bit nonplussed that he was so certain. That he was so insistent, and more than just for Drusilla’s sake. “You don’t want that? To be… free of it?”

Spike tore his eyes jerked briefly off John to catch on her. “Buffy, I dunno how much it would change for me at this stage of the game, save maybe to make it a bit tougher to hold back when it comes to behavin’ m’self. But I’ll tell you right out, I’m not sure I want anything in me any more confused or twisted about or subtracted, or, God knows; chained up, in me. Not at this point. Come to be comfortable how I am. Makes it easier, yeah?” He shrugged it off, feeling easy in the question by this point, if tense in the execution. “Yeah, I’d get along, either way.” His mouth tightened then, and his eyes turned back, glittering, on the prick now standing back in a semi-circle of fire. /Only thing left to do is to figure how am I to stop him./ He firmed up his voice, crouched and ready to leap on the man before him. The flames would hurt… but he’d been burnt before. He’d do. “But I’ve earned this soddin’ soul, and it sits just fine alongside my demon, most days, since you freed me to be however I want to manage it.”

“Spike…” 

“Meanwhile,” he finished grimly, and flexed his fingers, “I definitely don’t wanna trust that what he’s got there mightn’t actually tear the thing away completely, change me into something I’ve never been…” At his side, warm fingers brushing his forearm as Buffy joined him, preparing to act, though he could feel her shuddering at the very thought.

Before them, the ring of fire around the man was rising, was nearly closed. Dare he jump over it, or was it creating some sort of magickal bubble all round him, that would repel any comer? How should he go about getting that box from the sonofabitch? “And we both know,” Spike went on grimly, beginning to slowly circle the fucker, “that either way, what he’s meanin’ to do would destroy _her_ ; shovin’ a soul in along with the mess she’s got goin’ on in there, or freein’ it up more, or whatever the bloody hell that thing he’s holdin’ does. It would drive her mad; or madder than she already is, and that’s sayin’ somethin’...”

John looked deeply suspicious now, as he followed their intense conversation with narrowed eyes. “You’re just trying to convince us not to do it.” He lifted his free hand high over the semicircle, prepared to close it round him. “You don’t want her healed,” he spat. “You hate her for turning you…”

Still circling their visitor Spike felt his rage peak for the first time to overpower frustration and fear. His game face broke free at that point to menace the idiot. “You stupid, sad little man,” he spat, and swung an arm out toward Dru, who was now clapping gaily at the sight of the lurid orange flames, “this woman _made_ me. I’ll be forever beholden to her, whatever we are to each other now. But she was a Slayer once, or a potential Slayer anyway. You’ve no bloody idea what you’re proposing! When she was turned, whatever soul she had was utterly lost, or driven so soddin’ far ‘round the twist it’s amazing she has any brains left to scramble. She got a demon who inherited the madness of what was left of the chit she was, and went even more off her trolley because the demon inside every Slayer has always been there, fighting her for possession of her being. She’s a right mess, and introducing her tortured sodding soul back into the mix won’t do a lick of good. You think anyone needs _three_ spirits in them, takin’ up space? Two’s the soddin’ limit as it is!”

Dru abruptly ceased her clapping to stare, tears starting in her eyes. And, unspurprisingly, she began to sway. “So many voices. All of them talking, all the time, gnashing their teeth. Little Drusilla, in the middle, whirling and spinning, like a cricket ball sent through closed wickets; slamming, slamming, slamming doors. Crash, bang, falling down the stairs…” She made another little, pained whimper. “But they’ve locked the door on me, and Miss Edith is so very angry, and it’s so _dark_ down here…”

John’s eyes darted from her back to Spike, then to Buffy, and he shook his head. “You’re lying. That’s not what this does. That’s not how it works. You’re…” He reached out with one hand, over the top of the box. “You’re just trying to stall…”

Before Spike could react, could think of a way to stall the man, Buffy acted. Because sometimes, in these situations, his Slayer was quicksilver, and cleverer by far than he deserved in a lifelong companion. Out of nowhere, and out of sod all other options, she was dancing out to catch up Dru’s hands, was pulling her up off the bench as if they were playmates. “Ring around the rosie,” she called aloud, and spun with the other woman. Spike could feel from her the startlement and then the recognition of chill hands, but smaller than she was used to, and the grim certitude of this last-ditch effort to distract their quarry. To hold him off till one of them could get close. 

Spike would do his part, keep the man off balance till his Slayer could strike. Holding that spell, this John was far more dangerous than he ought to be otherwise. 

In the moment, John didn’t even seem to notice the impromptu game going on. He was far too intent on Spike. “I don’t know why you’d want to keep the leash in your mind…” he snarled, orange flames growing in his mad eyes.

“Pocket full of posies…” 

Dru loved it, of course, throwing back her head to laugh aloud. Delight rang in her voice at Buffy’s willingness to go mad and play with her. “A-tishoo! A-tishoo!” she answered gaily.

They spun closer and closer to the killer facing off with Spike, swinging about in wild, sprightly circles, mad as hatters.

“…But I’m taking it…” His hand tightened on the lid of the box. The circle edged near to closing.

The girls spun, swinging their heads backwards as if they were playing the game in the sodding grammar school playground. Faster and faster, clinging till one of the twain might slip, let go and go flying; torn apart to strike the pavement, giggling at the brief sensation of having soared like a bird, the vertigo above them of the spinning sky…

“…And I’m giving it to her, and then…” His fingers dug into the edge, preparatory to pulling it open.

Spike could feel the tension ratcheting up. Buffy had an eye on where she was, a deadly game of spotting her target at each revolution; because she’d been an ice skater, and knew how to do exactly that. As she and Dru sped up, his Slayer made sure she always knew where John was; his hand on the top of that dread box and his teeth clenched in preparation for loosing that whatever-it-was. 

Spike made sure she could feel his own certainty.

“…We’ll be the same. Together…”

It would be all she would need to act.

“…We’ll all fall down!”

Buffy let go of Drusilla’s hands… and spun, hard, to fling out a leg in precisely the right spot to hit the only remaining gap in the fiery circle. Of course, she was spot-on, kicking the box out of John’s hand. It flew, wide, struck the concrete of the path about fifty feet away, and exploded into a shattered shrapnel of old wood. The eyeball-shaped decoration atop the former lid rolled away. 

/Fuck, what if it comes at me and Dru, free from the circle, nothing to contain it…/

A faint wheezing noise exited from the splintered remains, but that was it. Apparently the thing within needed the circle to activate it, or some bloody thing, because whatever miasma was inside passed without incident. 

The moment the box broke apart, the circle of unnatural fire faded from around the bastard as if it had never been. It left not a mark on the ground around him. 

John, though, remained suffused with the scarlet of rage. “You… You bitch…” 

Buffy kicked again, striking a face flushed with rage. She got him under the chin. He went down hard, out cold. 

Stumbling back against one of the trees, Drusilla clung to the bole behind her, bent over and stunned. And began to wail in mourning, the shocked realization striking her that she had been had. 

Despite the fact that Spike had known exactly what his mate was planning, he remained still for a moment, staring at the shattered remains of the spell. It took him a second or two to kick-start back into breathing mode, and when he did, the breaths came fast and shocking. /Do I feel different? Have I… lost anything? Am I the same? Did it…/ 

He felt unchanged. Whatever the spell was, it must’ve taken some sort of conscious direction, or maybe it had needed to be closer, because…

Turning slowly, he stared at Buffy, unable to quite credit that the emergency was over. Buffy stared back, worry in her eyes and seeking clemency for her actions. “I improvised,” she murmured, and held out one hand. “Are… Are you…”

He closed his eyes briefly, drew in a shuddering breath, and nodded. “I’m alright, Slayer,” he answered, and lifted one shaking hand. “I… Fuck.” He didn’t know quite what he was feeling. There was so much…

Buffy nodded, well-aware that he might be feeling any number of conflicting things… and gave him a minute. Instead she turned her attention to his very broken sire, reached out, slid an arm around the demented vampire’s shoulder. “C’mon, Dru.” 

For the record, it was still odd to hear her call his sire by Spike’s name for her. 

Rising, she darted a glance at him. “We’ll need to make a quick phone call, but after that, I think you should come home with us… away from here, before the bright lights come…” 

Coming out of his haze, he nodded. It was easy enough to catch on to her meaning; and yes. Sirens and lights and the lot would definitely set Dru off, considering she was already a fucking mess. 

Pulling himself together, he drew out his phone once more. It felt like hours since the call with the Bit. He felt a little outside himself as he dialed the local _polizia_. They could bring said force in on the business, at least as pertained to this John git. Easy enough to let them know there was a criminal here from the US who could be extradited. They could have the credit. He was human, after all.

But this half of the duo, though... They needed to get Dru safely settled, somewhere away from all of it, before the psychic pressures of the situation sent her over the bleeding edge. 

“Let’s get you inside,” Buffy was murmuring to his sire. “We have some blood for you, and then maybe we can find a way to help you…”

_“Si,”_ Spike responded to the other end of the call, and set to chatting in Spanish with the local constabulary. _“Hay un hombre en la playa que es un asesino…”*_

He trailed Buffy as she got Drusilla into motion. 

“You think there’s a way to help stop the whirligig in my mind?” Dru sounded shaky as hell, her voice broken and mourning. “It goes round and round and never stops; and things are growling, growling…”

Buffy shot a helpless look toward him as he ended his call and drew up even with them.

Feeling tight and defensive, Spike set himself at Dru’s other side and shook his head once; a short, sharp reply. “There might be, luv. There’s a place in Nevada called Mosaic.” And he shot a quick, questioning look at Buffy, uncertain how she’d feel about him scarpering off for a week or so with his sire. It needed to be done, though, clearly. “I can get you there, Dru. They might be able to help a bit…”

He felt it when Buffy a decision; sudden, swift, come to in precisely that instant. _“We_ can get you there.”

Shock pervaded him. He threw her a startled, grateful look, was rewarded with a faint smile that said she would explain later. The settled emotion rolling between them, the troubled edges of it, were enough, though, to explain it somewhat.

She felt nearly as responsible as he. If Dru was, in fact, a part of her Line, then they might be just as much a part of each other as those infants were up in Scotland. Hell, she might in a way share as much of Dru as he did, in her own odd, Slayer-ish manner. Which, to Buffy’s mind, would make his poor, mad sire Buffy’s responsibility as much as she was his. 

“She matters to you,” Buffy put in, quietly, as they reached the house. Which was, atop the rest, enough to explain it to him. If something mattered to him, it mattered to her, and Christ, what had he done to earn her devotion, her love? 

“Why would you want to help me, Slayer?” Dru asked, sounding lost as they settled her to their sofa. She looked up at Buffy in clear confusion; a lost child again, now her companion had been reft from her. “Why would the Day want to take the Night to rest?”

Buffy sighed lugubriously, and shot Spike a look that said, ‘Be a good host. Get her some blood.’ “Because I know what you’re going through,” she informed his sire quietly. Her voice trailed him to the kitchen as he went to the fridge to dig out some of his backup blood supply. “Or, at least, I can imagine, and I would never want to go through it myself. Especially not for over a century and a half, so if we can get you some rest, then I am there for it.” And she settled her eyes briefly on his as he turned his back to the now-perking microwave. “And, because it’s important to Spike.”

Dru’s eyes flickered over to touch on him. “Yes, it would be important to Spike…” She smiled her sad little smile; the one that was, nowadays, the most familiar to him of all Dru’s expressions. It had been, after all, the one he’d seen most from her, since his heart had departed from hers to follow his Slayer. “My William always saw me safe.”

Spike jerked his gaze from his sire to touch on Buffy’s, saw a flicker of a smile touch her lips. “And he will again; this one last time.” And she nodded at him as the microwave bleeped behind his back. “Our very constant William.”

/Oh, bloody hell./

“We have shared him between us for quite some time, haven’t we, Slayer.”

“Yes, we have. And what’s a little encore between friends, huh?”

Spike approached with the warmed mug, rolling his eyes. “Oh, bloody hell.”

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
So, the comics canon storyline where this guy, John, is put up to stealing Spike's soul by WR&H, while he's in Vegas do-gooding with Team Spike and getting in their way, and they're still mad about Hell-A, and blah blah... and Willow helps him out with the sitch, and the soul gets put in Dru for a while, but eventually it goes back into him, because it doesn't help Dru or something (I stopped paying attention) never washed for me because SOULS AREN'T INTERCHANGEABLE. They just aren't.   
  
Though, I LOVED the part where he realized, and recognized about himself, with Willow's recognition there as well, that he was a pretty good guy even before the soul, and he'd do fine without it. But we've covered that in here, I think. And I have reasons for him staying as the creature he is, and for him to lose it in here would screw up my ending. (Also, for Dru? Just, no. Not the way to help her, please and thank you, she's got enough going on, omfg!)  
  
Also, there was a great bit in there, via Willow, about how Buffy kicked down every door in the world to find out if it was true once she heard he wasn't dust, yadda (though of course probably after hearing that he was alive, she must've thought it was confirmation of all her worst fears when he didn't come to her, after undusting, and no doubt that played into her actions in Twilight, and did I mention that I hate canon and the way their decisions in things like S5 of Angel and stuff like this crap plays into that hot mess? GAH).   
  
Anyway, moving on because THAT NEVER HAPPENED THANKYOUVERYMUCHANDGOODNIGHT.  
  
translation:  
 _Si. Hay un hombre en la playa que es un asesino_ … = Yes. There is a man on the beach who is a murderer...  
  



	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Building up toward some big moves here... as Dru's visions are no doubt hinting.  
> I'm gonna be interested to hear what people make of them, in this chapter.

**B:**

Buffy hadn’t expected to be back in LA again for a while. Heck, she hadn’t thought she’d _ever_ come back to Vegas, which she hadn’t seen since she’d run away with Pike after dusting her first Master at fifteen. /Maybe we can at least hit a few slots this time, now I’m of age. Being as the stupid things are everywhere./ Heck; they even had ‘em in the freaking _airport._

Though, on second thought, probably not the best idea to venture too far into the city on a gambling safari, considering that, A, they had Drusilla on their hands (all those lights and dingy sounds probably would be a lot for her to deal with, on top of everything else), and B, based on some of the stuff he’d let slip, that bastard ‘John’ had probably been sent to them by the Vegas branch of Wolfram and Hart. /Nice to know we’re all still such good friends./ Couldn’t those assholes just let bygones be bygones? /We were just trying to survive. It was all Angel’s idea, attacking your LA branch. Spike was just there by an accident of timing and, like, suicidal boredom; and really, the amulet deal was all _your_ idea, not ours. If I could take it all back and just have kept him, you know what I’d choose, right?/ 

Not that she’d necessarily take back all the nest-y goodness they’d had in Hell-A, but…

Well, anyway, if they went very far into Sin City, they’d probably end up in a pitched battle or something, since for one thing, Spike was still freaking irate about what the pricks had tried to do to him and Dru, using their serial killer puppet. Not that she blamed him. Especially over the part where they’d tried to use his tormented sire against him like that. Which, like, seriously. As if Drusilla hadn’t been through enough, without being turned into someone else’s tool—again—on top of everything else. 

Spike needed to chill, though. It wasn’t like they could just storm the Vegas branch of lawyerville and demand satisfaction or whatever. They needed to take care of Dru. That was their first priority, here. /And then, after we get her set, I need to get Spike out of the state of Nevada, before he heads back toward Vegas to try to throw down with them, because him and his stupid demonside might just try to turn into some kind of one man, swaggery army and toss some kind of vampire gauntlet or something, and we really don’t need these guys trying to take us down—or coming after us more than they already are, or whatever—on top of this Twilight mess./ 

Things were bad enough as it was, trying to figure out why the timing had gone down the way it had. / _Hopefully_ it’s just because they’re pissed about the ‘Demon Lord of Beverly Hills and his Champion’ thing, and they just happened to find us when they did, through some kind of demon grapevine thing, because we’ve been making waves. It’s bad enough that now they clearly know where we live…/ 

God help them if WR&H were helping Twilight in some way. Not that they had reason to, since they shouldn’t have a reason to help some human, anti-demon squad. After all, most of their clientele were demons. But what if they were only in on the anti-Slayer part, because the army jerks were promising WR&H’s clients some kind of Slayer-free world, or something?

It was too much to consider. It made her brain whirl. And there was already too much to deal with right now in the first place, with this Twilight crap, and trying to rally support, all grassroots style. /I just can’t. I’m just gonna assume it was in retaliation for Hell-A. It’s the only thing that makes sense anyway./

Honestly, it had to be. Because if they went home and Angel and a bunch of rando soldiers were at their doors…

/No. It just wouldn’t make sense. Even if the visions showed Angel some Twilight-related crap while he was in Hell-A. That had to be just an accident of location./

Anyway, no matter what Wolfram and Hart were up to with this whole John mess, hopefully they’d back off now that their stupid trick didn’t work. And assuming that, she and Spike should probably not stir the ants’ nest more. /We should just sort of watch it from a distance, now we know those jerks are still treating us like an enemy./ 

/As if we need more!/ 

Wasn’t it great to deal with problems they’d inherited because Spike had been stuck in Angel’s crap from last year? She knew he felt bad about it, too; but why should he? Yeah, he’d thrown in voluntarily toward the end, out of the goodness of his heart, but that was just because he was trying to do the right thing. No way he should be punished for it now! It wasn’t like he’d chosen to get sucked up into that mess in the beginning. 

The whole stupid thing had been one big WR&H game, from the amulet all the way to now. She’d told him as much; let him know what Cordelia had shown him in her vision back in those last minutes in hell, while Angel had been dying. None of this was Spike’s fault. And the fact that they were still dealing with a bunch of crap leftover from Angel’s lawyer vendetta, plus something Angel was doing now with the army, all at the same time, was just… coincidence. /Right?/

Still, even if they walked away from the Vegas thing, that didn’t mean this trip couldn’t be fruitful, aside from making sure that Drusilla finally got some peace. Now that they had gotten this close, they might as well take the time to pop over into Angel’s territory and confront him. /In fact, it would be dumb not to. At least see if we can figure out what the heck he’s up to, while we’re in the same country./ 

First, of course, there was the business of settling Dru into the Mosaic center in Primm, which was more or less on the state line, but that wouldn’t take too long, really. Or, it would have once upon a time, but that was before Spike had apparently heroically taken over the entire place, with the help of Betta George and that girl Beck, among others, and saved practically everyone inside from being used as some asshat’s personal spawning ground. (Mosaic was, it seemed, the source of his example regarding demons using other demons’ and/or humans’ heads as a place to put his ‘sprogs’. Which had, unsurprisingly, led to a lot of pain and suffering on the inmates behalf, and had been a pretty easy way to control the populace before Spike had been committed to Mosaic back while he was white-hatting around LA, and come out a conquering hero. Or, so Buffy assumed. He didn’t much like to talk about his time there, save to say that that was how he’d originally met their fishy friend.)

Mosaic was now an actual real retreat and hospital for demons and part-demons suffering from mental health issues and other problems; genetic degradation due to chromosomal splicing problems between species, stuff like that. Which, Buffy assumed, happened when you either bred with the wrong species too often, or interbred within your own too often because there were just way too few of you left. /Take your pick./ 

“They’re pretty well-versed in hybridization issues,” Spike informed her they as passed the miles out to Stateline in their rental car. He had one hand at an odd angle, wedged behind him between the seats, to comfort Dru, who was sitting all draped across the back, and regularly patted her hand or her knee or whatever he could reach as the highway unrolled before them. “They’re meant to be at the cutting edge with stuff no one else has really bothered to look into. Comes of having done a whole load of Mengele-style shite for a long while there, while Zinn was in charge.”

Buffy sensed the bleak mood around the edges of his words, and felt the better of asking too many questions. If he wanted to share what had gone down in that place before its reformation, he’d tell her. Clearly, though, it hadn’t been pretty.

It must be a place he trusted now, however, or there was no way he’d be bringing his sire to them to get her straightened out. “Just a little longer,” she told the troubled vampire rocking silently behind them. “Then maybe we can figure out how to help you find some peace.”

“We’ve all our own parts to play,” Dru answered in a low, curious singsong. “Sometimes we’re the cat, sometimes we’re the mouse, sometimes we’re the anvil, falling, falling…”

Buffy made a sour face. “Well, that sounds joyful.”

Spike grunted. “Now, that might just be a bit of nothing. Tell you something, pet; that bird loves _Tom and Jerry_. She never much liked telly, but if I ever needed her to sit still, I could set her in front of one for a couple hours with that on, and she’d watch it straight on through, laughing her arse off…”

“Well, okay, but _Tom and Jerry’s_ hilarious.” Buffy shot an approving glance back at Drusilla. “What about Sylvester and Tweety, or Wile-E-Coyote and the Roadrunner?”

“Acme owns us all. Great joke from the ones pullin’ the strings, isn’t it?” Dru sat up abruptly in the back seat, and crossed her legs beneath her voluminous skirts, to stare back at Buffy with an odd, almost sad expression on her drawn face. “Dark holes open up all ‘round us, flat and featureless. Look like nothing, but down we fall…”

/Okay, with the suck./ Buffy bit her lip. “Color my childhood ruined.”

Spike grunted, sounding darkly amused. “You did ask, Love.”

“I did.” With a sigh, Buffy took it in turn to pat Drusilla’s chilly knee. Talking with Spike’s sire was an exercise in constant confusion infused with spritzes of minor terror.

Bottle-green eyes rose to meet her gaze in the half-light of the desert night, cool and flat as pools while the miles unspooled behind them toward the border. “Daddy plays with you, Slayer. Like a cat with a mouse. Like he did with me. But something else plays with Daddy.” And a faint tear emerged to run, very slowly, down along the side of the vampire’s pale, patrician nose. “Filthy creatures with tick-marks to make on their forms, coming to barter with lives; want to make the thing in us strong and weak and strong again so it can open a door… But the door it opens is so bright it burns away the world.”

Buffy felt a chill of foreboding slither up her spine, shiver over her neck and shoulders. /That… sounds like an apocalypse./ 

Turning completely around in her seat, she closed with the oracle behind her, seeking for further intelligence. “This… thing that’s playing with Angel… Dru, you said it’s making check-marks, trying to accomplish whatever it needs to till it can… open a door. Like… a dimensional door?”

“Swing wide it will,” Dru intoned, and began to twine her arms in the air above her. A faint giggle issued from her pale throat as she threw her head back, lost now in vision. “Eat up the world…”

“Bloody fuck…” Spike murmured, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. Interestingly, he seemed in no way disposed to take over Buffy’s rookie interrogation of Drusilla’s vision. 

Buffy closed her eyes and sought for stability. She got it now, what Spike had always taken so seriously about Drusilla’s abilities. It was like living with a supernatural barometer. /Wow./

You just had to figure out how to parse her. “And to open that door, it has to… barter with lives?” she nudged, struggling to drag more useful information from their otherworldly informant. Anything that could tell them what the hell Angel was up to was a million-percent worth investigating. 

“Dead scattered all ‘round Daddy; piled up in droves, and him laughing with the pain of it, laughing with the triumph of it…”

“Oh.” /His vision./ It hit Buffy all at once. Right now, Angel was on the road to the horrible vision that had so horrified him back in Hell-A. And somehow, that terrifying sight had something to do with his being used to… to open a dimensional doorway so powerful that it might actually destroy the Earth. And then a thought occurred to her that almost made her quail, as she remembered what she had seen, with Angel, in that godawful slice of his possible future while they had been skipping around with Illyria back in Hell-A. “Um, what you’re seeing, Dru… You said it makes the thing in us strong and weak and strong again. Are you talking about the thing you and I share, or the thing you share with Spike and Angel, or…”

Spike grunted hard, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “Christ,” he whispered, but let her keep on asking the questions. Maybe he thought she was doing a fine enough job on her own. 

Right now she kind of wished he would jump in. Drusilla was weaving now, looking drunk as she began to wail like a firetruck, moaning and keening. “The thing in me, Slayer, the thing in you… They’ll take it away, so I can’t help. I could go to Daddy, be the thing he thinks he wants, let it use me…” She began to weep, copiously. “Burn me all up in the sun, though. Little Drusilla; dust in his hands. Never wants me for who I am, always wants someone else…” And she dissolved, weeping, against the upholstery of the rear seat. “Can’t do, can’t do, wasn’t close enough, was I? Have to use one who was there…”

Spike yanked the car over to the side of the road and put it in park, turned till he was halfway into the backseat, and began stroking Dru’s back, murmuring sweet nothings in a way that sounded both pained and practiced. “Here, now, Dru, luv, just let it out. There’s my girl. Yeah, go on then. I’m so, so sorry, pet, that it hurts you so. Spike’s here, luv. Tell the nasty bastards to leave you be, yeah? You’ve delivered your message…” His soft, soothing croon, laced with concern and a stifled rage built over a century of watching this woman be tortured by two different sets of powers with him helpless to aid her, ripped at Buffy’s heart.

Dru eventually lifted her eyes to Spike’s, shook her head soberly. She pouted, touched his hand, resting on his shoulder. “I’ve missed you, my Spike.”

He sighed heavily. “I know, luv,” he answered, and the weight of his regret, his shame and his guilt for having deserted his sire, nearly crushed Buffy only with the backlash she got from their bonding.

“It’s worse when you’re with me, though,” she informed him flatly.

He recoiled as if she had slapped him across the face. When he spoke, it was in a strangely flat, almost strangled tone. “Is it, then?”

“They talk to me more, when you’re here,” she answered dreamily. “And when the Slayer’s here, they talk to me double-time, with marching feet…”

Spike’s free hand tightened into a fist. Out of nowhere, he punch the head-rest of the driver’s seat. 

Buffy watched his jaw tic for a moment in silence, then reached out hesitantly to brush his shoulder.

He breathed for a moment; in, out, then nodded. “I’ll do, Buffy.” It was strained, but it was real.

/Alright./ Turning away from him, she resumed watching Drusilla, who would probably always need someone to keep her stable. Who hadn’t had anyone for who knew how long. She’d re-sired her own grandsire out of desperation, needing a companion… and then Darla had left her again—vanished into the nethers, seeking answers, and eventually dusted bringing Connor into the world—till in the end she had stooped to freaking _human_ companionship, out of what Spike would call ‘sod all other options’. And then, due to Wolfram and Hart’s interference, she had lost even that pale echo of a companion. 

And here she was, alone once more. /God, you just can’t win, can you, girl?/ “Then we should probably figure out a way to fix it for you, Dru, since we’ll probably keep running into each other. Fix it so you can walk through the world without it chasing you, making you crazy.” Probably best to admit the truth. Whether because she was as much part of this mess as Buffy and Spike were, if not more so—and had been for longer—or simply because of family dynamics, they would always run into each other again. It just was. “Because that’s just the way it works, right? We’re all bound together, now.”

Drusilla lifted her eyes to meet Buffy’s once more, her gaze like bottles floating on a dark ocean filled with lost messages. “We’ve all been split, for seven-score years; and now, to the core, like an oak has been struck by lightning. You, and I; and then the other; the one I took to bring it all back into me. But then another came, because that tree will always have branches. But the ones were there… The ones who were there when you blasted the whole tree apart, sharp, into splinters, so it had to grow up like a field of saplings, all blowing like the fingers of willows, to spring up from the broken tree, all over, everywhere you dropped a twig or bit of bark…” Her eyes were hypnotic; empty and full of tides as the sea, and Buffy thought she could see herself in there, raising the Scythe, Willow next to her. “Only the ones who were there are the ones can be what He wants.”

“The ones… who were there when we… When we woke all the Potentials?” Buffy heard herself ask, distantly.

“It’ll fill you up,” Drusilla informed her conversationally. “Or her. Or them. Because it can’t be me.” She made a faint moaning nose. “It can’t be me, because it can never be me. I can’t be in the sun.”

/You can’t do something… to stop Angel from whatever that horrible vision had him doing… because he needs either one of us who was there when we activated all the Potentials… or…/ Buffy frowned at Drusilla, wondering what that spell had done to her. If it had made her worse. “Where were you, Dru, when we did that spell?  
  
“Hovering close,” she whispered back, and brushed her fingers absently over Spike’s arm. “Had to be close. My baby boy was going to become dust and ashes. Had to give him a nice farewell. Spinning, falling, falling away; climbing out of the ashes and the dust, after, in the dark; wailing, gnashing teeth, knowing he was gone; gone into a shining rock the monsters would take and make their own and give him to Daddy, later. I couldn’t save him…”

“Oh, Christ,” Spike whispered, and stared at her in amazement. “I didn’t even feel you.” It came out a bare husk of a sound; wordless shapes in the gloom of the cab.

“Wouldn’t’ve. Weren’t mine anymore. All full up of the nasty spark. Couldn’t feel anything but the Sun.” Her eyes, lifting to Spike’s, were filled with tears. “Been hers, haven’t you, since you sent me away.” One pale hand drifted up, touched his face. “But I had to see you off, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “You would do that, wouldn’t you, luv.”

Buffy closed her eyes and nodded, at this point honestly fighting her own tears, sprung to her eyes in honor of the fact that Spike’s sire had chosen to risk dusting in the disaster that was the end of the hellmouth, to see off the vampire she had made and given away to another. 

“Had to be there for what you did, too, Slayer,” Dru informed her, eyes turning ineluctably away from her get. “Had to feel it, put myself into it, didn’t I? Had to be a part of it. Just in case it decided to use me later.”

Wet, glittering eyes on hers, and Buffy frowned. “The… spell?”

“Blew us all apart. Maybe it would make the shoutin’ in my head get quiet, finally.” A sad little sigh. “It didn’t. But it was worth a Chinaman’s chance…”

Spike had a strange look in his eye now. “And since you were there… you’re a part of… whatever’s about to happen. With Peaches.”

Drusilla withdrew her hand and pouted. “Can’t be. Too much sun all ‘round it…” 

Spike contemplated that for a moment before shooting Buffy a quick glance. “I think Buffy and I might need to discuss that amongst ourselves a bit before too long, yeah?”

“You change things, my Spike, the monsters will gnash their teeth and boil with rage…”

Spike grinned and patted her hand as he leaned over to put the car back into gear. “You said you still have a part to play in all this. If you’re willing, atop of that, who are we to get in the way?”

“Spike?” Buffy asked, curious now what he had in mind.

“Let me stew on it a bit longer, Buffy,” he answered, sounding thoughtful.

“Okay.”

He put the car in drive, and they pulled back out onto the dark ribbon of highway, heading toward Primm.

***

“You are, of course, always welcome here, Spike,” Malposo Yadda-Yadda, the director of Mosaic, told them as she shook both their hands solemnly. “After what you did for us…” 

She then lifted a brow in Buffy’s direction. “Know that we have satellites in any number of US cities, should you and your… associates ever choose to avail yourselves of our services, Slayer. You have been through any number of shocks to your psyche, after nearly a decade holding the line in the sand between two worlds.”

Buffy felt herself withdraw, without moving an inch. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

Spike’s thumb, moving just slightly, up and down her incredibly tense shoulder, soothed her into stillness before she could flee. A reminder that nothing and no one could ever make her captive or hold her against her will. Not ever again; and that if ever they tried, she had him on her side.

After another moment’s perusal of, probably, their interpersonal dynamics, the asylum director turned her attention to Drusilla. “And, Spike’s sire. Welcome, welcome. We will, of course, extend that offer to you, as a part of his family. Please. Avail yourself of our services, and we will do everything in our power to assist you…”

Drusilla eyed the woman through her lashes, with a glittering, assessing gaze. “They’ll bite you if you try to kill them.”

Malposo lifted a brow and tilted her head slightly. “Things tend to,” she agreed easily. “I’ve yet to meet anything that cheerfully goes to its death without snapping a little. Even the things that have a death-wish…”

Buffy kept her scoffing noises to herself. Depending on how exhausted the Slayer-y bits were inside of Drusilla, constantly at war with the rest of her… who knew?

“Made, unmade, remade… So many voices, screaming in my head… All fighting each other with dirty claws…”

Malposo nodded. “So Spike informed me. I think the first order of business would be to figure out if the Slayer’s theory is correct before we proceed. After that, the real meat of the issue would be bared to us. Because if that is what’s happening inside your head, my dear, then the problem becomes tripartite. Operating from that hypothesis, if you were still human, of course, stripping you of a Slayer’s essence would kill you. However, now you’re possessed of an entirely other demon, and one ferociously in charge of your physical wellbeing, that one would, I’d posit, take over and see to it that your unlife continued thereafter; for it will have been fighting for ascendancy within you since your siring. However, there is the question of course of how much of your human soul remains, holding fast to that Slayer essence. The first—sans the secondary demonic essence—is a question that has plagued us with every vampire patient since we opened, and has quite honestly seemed to vary depending on the patient. Put together with the latter, it will I think vastly affect the outcome of any experiments done to flush out the essence bound to it, of your original demon…”

Buffy winced. Just the thought of being forcibly extricated of her Slayer-side sounded agonizing. And then there was what Dru had said in the car; something about… What was it? _“The thing in me, Slayer, the thing in you… They’ll take it away, so I can’t help.”_

Were they doing the right thing, bringing her here?

And yet, trapped the way Drusilla was, with two sides—or maybe even three—constantly at war… There had to be _something_ they could do to help her! 

“So, first you have to establish the status of her soulage, on all levels,” Buffy clarified. “See how much human’s in there, or if it’s just two demons duking it out, and then, what? Is there a way to, like, anchor the Slayer side and the vamp side apart from each other and sort of… I dunno, stop ‘em from fighting each other, see if they can live in any kind of harmony, or…” The idea of going in there and doing anything drastic seemed like a last-resort thing. Like some kind of psychic surgery. Messing around with someone’s spiritual or metaphysical make-up sounded just as freak-tacular to her as when people talked about doing stuff with genetics. Unless you absolutely had to, to fix some kind of serious, life-threatening flaw… /Should you really do that, unless you knew for sure what the results would be? Like, could we really know what might happen from that? Especially in a sitch like this one, that has to be a one-off? It’s totally an experiment, right?/ “I mean, you wouldn’t wanna, like, sift them, or whatever, unless we’re sure it’s necessary, right?”

Malposo pursed her lips. “It would take… a significant battery of tests to be certain of the current status of her various soul-components. No doubt we will still be working on that portion of events for quite some time. Though it helps that we have a member of her bloodline here, which might assist with said anchoring of the vampire-demon…”

Spike sighed and lifted a hand to forestall further debate. “I’m removed from the family blood-hierarchy, so you can’t use me for that.” And he made a twisted sort of face at Buffy before turning back to Drusilla. “Sorry, luv.”

“All wrapped around the Slayer. Can’t hear you, can’t see you, can’t feel you…”

“I know, pet.”

/Oh, man… That leaves…/

Malposo blinked, looking amazed as the realization dawned on her. “You’ve bound your blood to the Slayer?”

“Long story,” Buffy answered, and exhaled hard, dropped her face into her hand. “What, so we have to go convince Angel to cooperate, for her sake? God, we _know_ that’s gonna be impossible. He won’t even talk to anyone right now, much less…”

Spike’s mouth tightened. “Then we’ll have to leave a message for him with the Smurf. Maybe she’ll frog-march his worthless arse up here or summat.” He shot a glance over at Buffy, gave a faint little quarter of a shrug. “Any road, looks like we’re bound for LA, love.”

“At some point,” Malposo informed them, “you will also have to return.”

Buffy jerked back to the woman, confused. “Why, if…”

Strange, unearthly eyes riveted themselves on Buffy’s. “You are the prime member of the Line which holds the other half of her spiritual trauma. You will have to be used to anchor the other portion of her being, if we end in the decision to attempt an exorcism.”

“Oh.” Buffy turned to Drusilla, touched her hand lightly. “Um… well. It’s all going to be down the road a ways, considering we have to get Angel here first…” /And, God; this’ll involve having all of us in the same room again, working together, to help Drusilla, oh my God, what a recipe for disaster…/ “But none of it is gonna happen until and unless we have your consent. Remember that, Dru, okay? I know you don’t know much about consent, but I want you to know you get to say no, if you want to. And that none of it will happen until you say yes and mean it.”

Drusilla watched her for a moment through wary eyes… and then something cracked behind them, and she threw back her head and laughed. But she sounded like she was weeping when she spoke. “Everyone hurts little Drusilla. No one asks her if she wants it.”

Buffy patted her hand, covered it with another. “This time, we will, Dru.”

“So strange it is to know soft touches and hurt that might heal…”

Behind Buffy, Spike let out a low, pained noise that bespoke a hundred years of loss. She had nothing to say to that, for either of them.

***

Drusilla was in some sort of magickal version of an MRI, while they waited outside for a verdict. Depending on what the bespelled machine told them, they would know if she was going to be okay long enough for them to head to LA and go hunt around for her truant “daddy” (who, to be fair, had some ‘splaining to do about a few other things, so it wouldn’t exactly be a wasted trip either way). “You know, it’d be interesting to slap you in there,” Buffy murmured as they watched through the glass. “See what they said about the way your soul and demon are jostling around in there…”

Spike snorted dismissively, and removed the cigarette from his lips to eye her with dark amusement. 

“What? I mean, we know it’s in there. Final word. You’re all, ‘soul-having guy’, without a doubt. She’s the case where no one has a single clue what’s going on inside her. But still.” Buffy shrugged slightly. “It’d be neat to know how it all, you know…” She uncrossed her arms to slide her fingers together in a sort of ‘fitty-together’ gesture, then freed them to wave one hand around in the air, vague and uncertain how to put it.

Spike smirked and turned back to the window. “‘Member the Judge?”

/The… oh./ “How could I forget?”

“Nice trick, by the way, with the bazooka. Never got to say.” He grinned at her then, tongue tapping behind his teeth in that way that said something was seriously turning him on. Not that she needed it, since she could feel his sudden arousal beating off of her in waves. 

Apparently he had enjoyed hearing about her pulling out sophisticated modern weaponry to knock his sire and grandsire on their asses when he’d blown up their big, blue friend back in the day. 

Smiling at his response to the memory, Buffy pulled out a blithe tone. “Oh, you know. I was annoyed.”

His grin widened. “‘Mind me never to brass you off enough you start pickin’ up the major hardware.”

Riveted by warm, dancing blue eyes, she smiled back. “Be a good boy and I’ll never use a bazooka on your fine ass.”

His grin broadened. “Fine, is it?”

She rolled her eyes at him and sighed theatrically. “You know I love it, and get to the point, Spike. The Judge?”

“Yeah, well…” He rolled the cigarette thoughtfully in his fingers, then shrugged. “Tosser said Dru and I both ‘stank of humanity’.” His face twisted slightly. “‘Course, he said it was ‘cause we shared affection and jealousy, which is a bit speciesist of him, yeah?”

Buffy lifted her brows. “What’d it say about Angelus?”

His whole face went dark. “Oh, you know. Poster boy for demonkind was perfect. No human bouquet about him. Had Liam buried so bloody deep you’d need a sodding backhoe to find him.” Spike smirked mock-maliciously at Buffy. “You scared the hell out of him in bed, I think, pet. Cad hadn’t felt a thing in so bloody long he didn’t know which way was up. He wanted you dead so bloody badly. You should’ve heard him ranting about it when you two were in that spell at the soddin’ high school. You’d think he’d been soiled with pig shit. Scrubbed hisself off about nine times in the fountain…”

/Oh, wow./ “Nice.”

The mocking smirk turned admiring. “Quim of yours could turn any self-respectin’ demon to thoughts of puppies and rainbows, though, so I can see how he was havin’ a bit of trouble.”

She elbowed him hard. Over there in his little nook, the Ano-Movic lab guy was hunched over his machine, turning knobs furiously with his shoulders practically in his ears, and had turned a very interesting shade of maroon. Meanwhile, the witch doing the spell part was grinning as she sprinkled herbs in a wide circle. Their whispers were obviously audible. “Affection…” she murmured, overriding her guy’s clearly demonic attempts to turn the techs into embarrassment soup. And something occurred to her. “Too many other demons write vamps off the way humans do, right? If you feel anything, it’s ‘cause of your human side, because a ‘proper demon’ isn’t supposed to feel human-like emotions, or whatever?”

“Yeah…” Inquiring minds clearly wanted to know where she was going with this, for Spike had sobered to watch her with interest. 

“Which means they obviously don’t know anything about your species, right? That the bonding stuff with the blood means… I mean, between siring, and mating, and fledges and masters and… There’s plenty of emotional connection there…”

“Sure.” His cigarette lay forgotten in his hand at this point, he was so caught up in her theorizing.

She kept her eyes focused on his. “Obviously affection and jealousy aren’t just a human thing, then.”

Spike snorted. “‘F it was, I’d’ve never been sniffin’ ‘round you, innit?”

Her hand slipped up of its own accord to cup his face briefly before dropping away. “So does that even mean Dru had any humanity left? Just because the Judge was confused about how vamps work? I mean, he’s just another jerk who thought Angelus was the model instead of a thingie. An anomaly.”

Spike shrugged. “Tosser burned up another one of our lot right off the top of things. Bloke named Dalton. The researcher who figured out where all his bits ‘n pieces were. Said he was too emotional, ‘cause he liked to bleedin’ _read_.”

Buffy’s eyes widened in abrupt, belated concern. “You never let him get too close to _you_ , did you?”

The cigarette fled back to cork a laconic mouth. “No comment.”

“Oh God…” If the Judge had vaporized another vampire for being a bookworm, then considering Spike’s hobbies, likes, dislikes…

“Any road, you’re probably right about the prat. Had no clue, so I guess he’s no real…” Spike’s lips twitched. “Judge.”

That one earned him a groan. “That was _bad_ , Spike.”

“I know. Couldn’t help it, though.”

Buffy was still for a moment as the thoughts perked and the lab guy and the witch over there went on doing… whatever. “Here’s the thing, though. Human or no, if she had a vampy-side in love with or mated to or sire-bonded or whatever to Angelus, and that was the dominant demon…” She analyzed it, searching for flaws, but yes. It really did make sense. 

The cigarette lowered again. “Buffy?” he demanded, sounding suspicious.

“No, hear me out. What if it was her vamp-demon that was bound to Angelus, but it was her… I dunno, her Slayer-demon was the part that was in love with you. But that part was the not-dominant part, you know, so it wasn’t in charge unless Angelus wasn’t around? So when she got out from under his thumb for a while, she got a vision from that side, knew she wouldn’t have him forever…”

Spike straightened, looking abruptly haunted. “That she’d need a knight to protect her and keep her safe on the road. Oh, Christ.”

Buffy kept her eyes zeroed in on him. “So she went out looking for one. And she found you.”

“Oh bloody hell. As if I was anything like the right sort for…”

Buffy caught his hand. “But you were, Spike! You had that… what’s the word? That constancy and devotion thing down. All the nurturing and stuff she’d need. She could give you the demon, which would give you the warrior, the fighter, the zest for life and the… what’s the word you always use? The vigor, to put up with her and to keep up with the Whirlwind and to enjoy life. To remind her how to, because she probably really wasn’t.” 

“Buffy do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yes.” And it all made so much sense. “She—the Slayer-side of her—she made you what you are. Just like you said; and she made you a Champion. Hers first; a Champion for a fallen Slayer, and, eventually, for me, too, because we’re all one. But once she knew we’d all meet and she might have a chance to get Angelus back, she knew she was going to lose you anyway, because that part of her she had to pass you along to me. So she took her gamble and tried to trade up. She threw you over; and you were broken, because you needed to be a Champion for _someone_. It’s what you were made for. So you came to me, just like she expected you to.” She caught his hand, squeezed it. “You totally had to switch gears first on what kind of Champion to be; not one for Chaos but one for good instead… but you were never really evil at heart, because it wasn’t that part of her that made you. So it was pretty easy for you to turn into what I needed, compared to some.”

Spike lowered his face into his free one hand. “You’re sayin’ every Slayer I killed…”

“Was you getting ready. Or fighting your fate because it was confusing. Or maybe you were just mad those other ones weren’t the right ones yet to set you free.”

“Bollocks.” It came out muffled and incredulous through his fingers.

She wasn’t going to debate that, but she did pull his hand from his face. “It probably doesn’t matter how much of her human life is still there under everything. It’s the Slayer in her that made you. Made you for me, in the end, even if she originally made you for herself. And I am so grateful to her for that…” She squeezed the hand, dragged at it till she had his eyes, his attention again, on her. “I’ll do whatever it is we need to, to get her in good shape again, alright? She’s as much a part of me as she is a part of you, for one thing. And for another, she made you for the both of us, and then she gave you up to me trying to get Angelus back.” It hurt to think of it now; to think of how all that had gone for Drusilla, who had been abandoned, and hoping for her one last chance at her Daddy. “She threw everything in on that roll of the dice, and lost, and ended up with no one. So we need to help her now; because we ended up rich… and she went through all the same stuff as I did, only worse… and she’s _always_ lost the toss.” Buffy tugged at his hand, smiled slightly. “Well, with the exception of having you love her for a hundred and twenty years, which is pretty damn good luck, for anyone.” 

Spike made a pained noise.

Fair was fair. She had to be real. Dru had had him for longer, to be sure, but… “Other than that, she’s had a kind of shitty life this whole time. And for making you? For giving me you? Holy crap, do I ever owe her.”

Spike’s head slowly rose from his hand, and okay, now he was doing his ‘dissolved in awe’ face. “You amaze me, Buffy.”

“Well, you know. Same goes, so…” She kept the hand, tugging him away from the cubicle. “And you’re gonna get more chances, since I think, while we’re down here…” She glanced out of the nearest window, frowning in the general direction of LA.

Reading her unspoken intent, he sighed in a resolute sort of way. “Puttin’ aside whether the ponce’ll ever come up here to handle his business with Dru, probably best we try to figure something with this Twilight mess while we’re here on this side, innit?”

“Kill two birds,” Buffy agreed. “Make the trip count.” She made a face. “So we don’t have to come hauling butt back over here to put out some fire in like a month…”

“Think big, pet.”

Buffy shrugged and made for the nearest bench, to wait out the rest of Drusilla’s tests. “I try.”

***

They got Dru settled in at Mosaic, undergoing some kind of weird demon therapy to tide her over for the interim—some kind of sessions with a captive demon that ate madness or something? Something called a Lorophage, that ate trauma, and was usually immune to magicks. Malposo-whatever kept it under some sort of custom-created conditions, in containment in some back room, and used for the big-guns stuff. Apparently, Dru, with her weird-ass special circumstances, way qualified for said big guns, which said a lot right there.

Her first madness-sucking session did wonders, though. Buffy had honestly never seen her mate’s sire look or sound so coherent as she did when she bade them farewell. 

She still offered them prophecy, of course. She just handed it out without the standard serving of drama; clear-eyed and without any wailing or anything, which was weird. “You won’t find Daddy in the city of Angels, Sunshine,” she told them quietly as they made to depart. “But you will find many traps lying in wait to nip at your feet. Spring them all with rocks before you step,” she advised, “and you may manage to keep your feet on the path, so someone else can take flight, hang high from one leg and dangle for the pleasure of the ones who move us all about the board.”

As Dru-level portents went, it was almost straightforward. Not to mention kind of grim. “Well, that’s just great. Nice to know we’re still all just a bunch of pawns…”

Dru leaned forward then, striking like a snake to grab both their hands… and spoke for the first time in Buffy’s experience, without even a hint of a riddle in her voice. “Angelus is being used. Not his fault. It’ll try to use you too. It’s been trying since you were Called. Wants to use what’s in us…” Dark, fathomless eyes drilled into her. “All of us, none of us, one of us. Hold fast, Slayer. Hold fast to Spike, and it’ll be forced to give someone else a turn on the whirligig.” She leaned back then, dropping their hands. “Some of us have been on the merry-go-round since we were made. Maybe it’ll let us have a go at the controls, finally.” And she laughed; a pained, dark chuckle full of longing.

Spike winced before leaning forward to give his sire a kiss on the cheek. “Appreciate the warning, pet. We’ll check in on you before we head back home. See how you’re gettin’ on, yeah?”

One pale, long-fingered hand rose to his face, cupped it. “When I see you again, my Spike, there’ll be fighting. Hold on to Sunshine. Don’t let her float away. My turn, this time.”

He blinked at her once before nodding and taking her hand between his two to pat it. “It’s your turn for a lot of things, luv. I’ll do what you say. And thank you, Dru.”

She smiled sadly and nodded. “Go be a white hat, my knight. It’s what you are, now.” And her eyes flicked over to Buffy. “Take care of him. He’s been a good dog for a long time. He’s not mine anymore, but it’s nice to see him wag his tail so pretty. Means you’re doin’ right by him.”

Buffy nodded, feeling oddly gratified. “I sure try.”

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
:-) <3


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for those of you who are wondering if I've forgotten about ghost!Wesley... Nope. Neither has Illyria. I promise. I have plans.  
> Alas, there are other fish to fry first...  
> So, after a little more rounding up my politics, and short-circuiting some more of Twilight's anti-Slayer schemes to get us ready for the big, upcoming showdown, we set up a thing that happened in the comics... but which happened on its own, in a vacuum, so it couldn't be altered in any way. In this version, it can be slightly skewed to benefit our side.  
> Also, it sets us up to deal with some past events in a way which, I hope, is fairly unique, considering where our couple is by this point. So... yeah. Off we go, then.
> 
> Thank you all for your continued patronage!

_  
“If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.”_

* * *

The trip to LA was a silent one, both of them lost in their thoughts. Spike drove them up to the Hyperion, pulled into the back alley and put the rental car in park, then exhaled hard into the low light of a cab lit only by streetlights. “Well. Here we go, then.”

“Yeah.” Undoing her seatbelt, Buffy nodded to herself as if to firm up her intent, and stepped out.

They entered the all-too-familiar building… to find it echoingly empty. No one was hanging around the lobby of Angel Investigations. No one waiting for the night-life crew to show up and ask for assistance. No one, when they peeked into the office behind the desk, seemed to be manning the place. Just, what?

“Anybody home?” Spike hollered, to the tune of about a zillion echoes, because he was never one to hide his light under a bushel.

Silence, as the reverberations died… and then, after a moment, Illyria appeared at the top of the stairs. “It’s been long since I’ve seen you in this place, young one. And you, demon-slayer. It is pleasant to feel your emanations once more in my city.”

/Alrighty-y-o./ “Hey, Illyria.”

“Yeah, good to see you, pet. How’re things?”

“I am functional.”

As Illyria went, that was a pretty enthusiastic answer. Not one that left a lot of openings, though. 

Spike exchanged a glance with Buffy, then took up the interrogation, since he had always been better at Illyria-speak. “You here alone? Minding the shop, is it?”

“Charles Gunn patrols. Connor Steven Thomas Reilly patrols with him until it is time for him to depart to take up the instructional work required of him by the University of California Los Angeles.”

Buffy mouthed the long-ass name Connor had apparently taken to using with some amazement. /Holy crap, that’s a handle!/ “Okay. Uh, where’s Angel?”

“The vampire Angel no longer frequents this establishment.”

Despite the fact that they had both expected some variation of ‘Angel’s not around much anymore’, the very starkness of the answer hit like a hammer blow. Disbelief flowed freely between them on the bond. “I beg your bloody pardon?” Spike blurted, sounding more than a little offended.

“Angel Investigations is no more. We three continue to assist humans and inoffensive demons as necessary, but Charles Gunn has stated that as this is reputedly the second time that, in his words, ‘Angel has gone off the deep end’, it is no longer incumbent upon us to maintain the name of the business.”

“Well, shit,” Buffy put in, staggered.

“Kinda stepped on my line, there, Love,” Spike informed her, sounding incensed. “Christ. The sod dragged us all into hell—the whole bloody city—and now he has the stones to drop everyone in it like a hot fucking rock because he wants to…” He cut off abruptly, radiating betrayal and offense like a compact, infuriated sun.

“Looks like maybe we have some damage control to do here in LA,” Buffy informed her guy in an undertone. “Maybe touch in with a few high mucky-mucks while we’re here, see if anyone wants to throw in with us? You know, just in case? Maybe cash in on some of that credit we built while we were last here? Since it sounds like there’s maybe kind of a goodwill-vacuum going on.”

Spike shoved his fingers into his hair. “Yeah. Might do. Hell.”

Illyria reclaimed their attention when she descended the stairs, pausing before them at the huge, ornate newel post. “You believe that Angel has betrayed your organization of awakened Slayers, and you personally, in some fashion which will possibly lead to your eventual destruction.”

Spike’s head jerked up, and he groaned at the realization that their low-toned conversation had led to a nice reading by their demon-lord compatriot. “Well, fuck. That secret’s out.”

/Crap. Talking out of turn, much?/ Buffy had honestly completely forgotten about Illyria’s whole empathy-bordering-on-telepathy thing. She closed her eyes, exhaled sharply. “Cat’s out of the bag now,” she pointed out, because what could they do about it now? “Anyway, I’m kind of amazed she didn’t get it already from Faith when she was here.”

“The Slayer Faith dislikes me immensely, and avoided being in my presence with great zeal. My only impression was that she felt personally betrayed by Angel, and also great rage at his actions and activities.”

Spike muttered something with an oath or to in it, and lifting his head, rolled the dice with his ex-co-leader. “We think Angel’s joined up with a hidden faction inside the US Military; one that’s dedicated to the destruction of the Slayers, and the demon-world in general. It’s called the ‘Twilight Group’.”

Still poised at the bottom of the wide, sweeping staircase, Illyria tilted her indigo head slightly, after the manner of a hawk eyeing nearby prey. She looked, if anything, only vaguely curious at this bit of exposition. “What leads you to this belief?”

“We were trapped in their headquarters, up at the Sunnydale hellmouth. I smelled him in their administration room. His scent was ‘Angel in control’, not ‘anxious Angel’ or ‘coerced Angel’.”

Their resident godform considered this information for a brief moment, then straightened. “I accept your analysis. Angel would do this if he was being encouraged to do so by someone he trusted, who informed him it was a way to avoid his destiny, which is a thing he fears above all events. He wishes the Shanshu, so that he might be taken from the running and no longer be used as a pawn. As well, if someone were to tell him it would be to the ultimate benefit of the Slayers, of the demon world, or even the human world, he would agree, were the cost-benefit analysis couched in a fashion to appeal to his martyr’s mind.”

Well, one thing was certain. Illyria knew how Angel thought. Buffy had honestly never considered the first option. “Well, whatever his reasoning, I’m not a fan. We’re planning on spreading our counter-plan here. We’ve been offering a sort of a treaty to the demons in Europe, where we’ve been living. We thought we could try that here, too; a sort of, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ type of deal. I mean, when you get right down to it, aside from you, all the Old Ones have been out of commission for a long damn time, and the humans are ascendant now. They might even be able to wipe out the demon world, with the firepower they have; and honestly? I don’t really want that. Spike told me about this Jasmine chick who took out Cordelia, which leads me to believe that the good guys are just as bad as the bad guys when it comes to genocidal wars and big zero-sum plots to win their game. Right now we have a nice gray area we can all share, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Illyria held up a hand. “I dislike all of my fellow gods. They were grasping and wished only to supplant me and obtain my territories, my worshipers. However, I do not wish these human upstarts, who have enough power to reduce me to my current state, to send nuclear devices into the Deeper Well to end them in their sleep. The solution lacks… dignity, and would kill the heart of this magicks-driven world.”

/Kill the world’s… heart?/ It was an oddly-worded claim. Buffy would have to think about that for a while.

“A misguided final solution,” Illyria continued, talking, as usual, like she was discussing the price of rice on the open market. “And, as you say, these lesser demons have created a niche for themselves in this world. They share it now with humankind; a situation which I would have once viewed with great distaste. I now see it as an asset.” She cocked her head again, looking, for her, almost interested. “Their admixtures even contain some strengths to offset their inherent weaknesses. They clearly offset your own, which proffers me much food for thought.” And she nodded once, eyes incisive on theirs. “I would not wish this world as it now stands to be cleansed to a human-only population. Angel is in the wrong to support such a movement. We will accost the local demon-leaders and request their backing.”

Spike blinked, clearly as taken aback as Buffy was. “We? You plannin’ on joining us, pet?”

Blue-tinted eyes glittered on theirs, otherworldy and sans emotion. Calculation, as usual, sat behind her every move. “My support of your offer is likely to tip the scales, should any local leaders remain unconvinced, despite your record as impartial leaders during the city’s tenure in an altered temporal fold. My signature here may be muffled by this form, but I will still be felt, and recognized. My presence will lend weight to your argument; as will my status as an _ad hoc_ member of Angel’s team.”

There was no arguing that.

Spike knew where the high-ranking demons hung out in the city, of course. Apparently that hadn’t changed since Hell-A had reverted back to regular time and place, a supposition Illyria confirmed. Thus, without further ado they dumped off their luggage and headed out to some bar out on the edge of Carson, almost into Torrance. 

When they started through the door, however, Illyria surprised them by hanging back. “I will enter when it seems appropriate for me to do so. I do not wish to make the entirety of your argument about my presence.”

She had a point. Her aura or whatever did tend to overshadow things when it came to demon attention. 

Spike led the way within, since he knew his way around, nodding tersely at the bouncer—a brawny Movic—as they went. “Not sure if they’ll be the same lot as they were before the shake-up, pet. We’ll see. No doubt it’ll be the same sort. All the ones, most likely, as went under the fastest in Hell-A, for being on top on this end; for kowtowing to human laws and trafficking with part-demons and the like, yeah?”

“Yeah, that place was definitely built more for guys like Burge.”

Spike grunted. “Doubt asshats like him would manage to gain any solid backing this side. He wasn’t the sort to work within the system.”

“Thank goodness,” Buffy put in wryly. Guys like Burge were not amenable to collaboration with the puny food-group-types.

The demon-centric hangout of south LA was a dim affair, leaning heavily toward an ambience laced with smoke and red light. The latter of those, Buffy would once have considered ridiculously cliché, if not theatrical. She now knew it was simply a matter of practicality. A large number of the regulars found this sort of lighting more comfortable, being either nocturnal or semi-subterranean in habitat, either by nature, choice, or necessity. The red light would be a comfort thing; sort of like using the filter in a reptile’s tank to maintain a steady heat overnight without keeping the inhabitant awake. 

The smoke was familiar to her from her days at Willy's, and was more of a ‘we don’t follow California State law, we’re rebels’ deal. /Which, you know, fair./ They were, after all, demons. Probably they didn’t follow the age law when it came to liquor, either. Which, to be real, was also fair, considering that they were different species with different ages of majority. /Tintannas are adults at, what? Three? Meanwhile, vamps are technically whatever age their bodies are, physically, but what did Spike say about being grown up enough to have self-control and not be considered fledges anymore? Between ten and twenty years of full-on vampage./ He'd told her it depended a lot on the personality-mesh, on each vamp's self-control levels, on upbringing, and a lot of other variables. Anyway, it was understandable that your kids could be babies for twenty years, when your species could be a hundred and still be considered fairly young in the grand scheme of things.   
  
Age was a species-by-species thing. Why have a set rule when it came to stuff like drinking age? 

Yet another way in which human laws didn’t apply very well to demons in a lot of ways. /Which is yet another reason why I need to keep better-educating myself, so I can be a better cop-of-two-worlds./

They made their way past the bar, with its stools loaded with beings of various races, all swiveling to watch them pass. Wended along the gauntlet of low tables, with their chairs bearing complements of staring creatures. It seemed like the entire bar halted every conversation or sipping adventure to eye them as they strode further in, looking neither to the left nor to the right, and headed directly for the rear of the establishment. Buffy was faintly amused with herself to find that she had automatically placed herself just behind Spike’s right shoulder, like a bodyguard. Because she was in LA, and that was what she did in LA, now; stood as his Champion, because he was the demon-lord of Beverly Hills. 

Some ingrained habits were just honestly really tough to shake. 

They reached the wide booth that was their goal, faced a lounging personage of the Thurgald persuasion, who sprawled out across most of the available acreage with his long arms spread over the back of the booth, each one around a fawning honey of varying species, and flanked by sycophants. The Thurgald leaned his head back to take in their approach, widening his eyes slightly, and then nodded toward the chairs that were, it must be said, swiftly emptied for them across the low table from where his horny, bare feet lay crossed on the shiny surface. “Sit.”

They moved to do so, easily, and he immediately dropped his arms from behind his groupies to lean forward, looking interested. “Beverly Hills,” he murmured, and chuckled like a creaking door, eyes taking in Spike, then turned to Buffy. “Champion-Slayer. To what do I owe this pleasant surprise? Since I thought you two were hell and gone from LA, California, maybe even the damn country?”

Spike shrugged slightly and leaned back in his turn, arm flung back over Buffy’s shoulder. She smiled all chill and dropped a hand to his thigh, twiddled an index finger on his knee. 

“What’s good to drink here?” Spike opened casually.

The Thurgald snorted, lifted his eyes to the demon Buffy could feel hovering over her right shoulder. “Whiskey for the vampire, rum and Coke for the Slayer.”

Buffy lifted her eyebrows, interested in this accurate, if surprising, order.

“Your tastes are well known in this city,” their contact informed them, sounding amused. “Now. To business?”

Spike chuckled low. “Yeah. May as well, isn’t it Love?”

Buffy shrugged and leaned forward a little. “We’ve brought a deal to the European demon consortiums. Limited peace, in exchange for limited alliance.”

The Thurgald blinked, even as drinks were thrust into their hands from behind. Buffy took her chilly, dewy glass, eyes never leaving him as he worked through her words. After a moment, he frowned, sharp features suspicious. “Why?”

Spike took up the thread. “Because the military’s out to get the Slayers; and after them, every one of us. And they’ve the hardware to do it, nowadays. Slayer here’s got her chits in line; got ‘em trained now not to kill unless there’s reason. And she’s sold herself as hostage to our side, in exchange for parlay. Wants us to join hands to warn off the soldier-boys. Figures they’ll back off if they’re faced with a united front. Figures workin’ together’s better than all of us windin’ up dead or in some camp somewhere, starvin’ and being used in some kind of medical experiments, like what happened a few years back up in Sunnydale.”

The Thurgald flinched and went a few shades darker, which Buffy knew from experience was the Thurgald version of going pale. “Heard about that,” he muttered. “Was it as rough as…”

“Haven’t met any survivors, I take it?” Spike asked, and tossed back a swig of his whiskey. As well he might, being one of only a very few of said survivors.

“No. Only heard… rumors.”

“Not surprising,” Buffy answered grimly, taking lead for an understandably truculent Spike. “…Since only a few got out. But it wasn’t pretty. There were behavior-modification chips, live eviscerations… and they were using parts of different demons to build some kind of Franken-monster, grafting three or four different parts to a human body. Polgara arm, Gorakh leg and head… Robotic implants to the body, the brain. They were also injecting their soldiers with a cocktail of demon hormones to beef them up, which I think we all know what kind of trouble that could be in a fight, especially on a hellmouth…”

Their Thurgald friend flinched again. “And they’re starting that back up again?”

Spike’s face was like stone as he resumed the narrative. “They could,” he bit it off. “If they beat the Slayers, come after us… I think we all know it’d be better to be on the same side as the Slayers than against them, in a fight like that.”

Their contact frowned, and his eyes jaunted over to Buffy. “Look. I know you; by reputation, of course. Was dead before I could meet you, in Hell-A, but know what you did. Know you’re not out for blood; with all of us anyway. The fact that you can walk in here and…” His eyes flickered to Spike. “And you’re with _him_ , which says a lot. But he _is_ a vamp. It makes it tough for us to trust, since he has so damned much human in him. And there’s all the rest of your girls. There’s a fuck of a lot of you. And there’s rumors flying around that say you’re all up to some kind of… coup. To destroy all of demonkind…”

The words hit Buffy like a shock of frigid water, heavy and stunning. “There’s a _what?”_

Spike was equally thrown. “Why in the bloody hell would they do that?”

“Well,” the Thurgald put in equably, “why else build an army of Slayers?”

Buffy sighed and palmed her forehead for a second. /What the hell?/ She could see that kind of rumor gaining traction, considering the overall fear of her kind in demonic circles. And it was a fair concern… but someone would have had to start…

/Oh. Oh God./ Was someone out there trying to start some kind of anti-Slayer PR campaign? Or was this just natural rumor-mill crap? Because if it was the former… What a perfect way to counter their entire movement, and convince the demon-world to stay fractured! “It had nothing to do with other demons,” Buffy managed, fighting not to groan at the uphill battle they suddenly had to face. “I was fighting the worst odds I could imagine, up in Sunnydale—an apocalypse like I’d never faced before—and it was just a last-ditch effort to come up with the numbers to win it. We didn’t think past that battle.” She lifted her eyes to meet the Thurgald’s, let him read the blunt honesty there. “We didn’t remotely consider the problems it would cause later, or we probably wouldn’t’ve done it. I swear. It was definitely not to pull some kind of anti-demon coup…”

The Thurgald looked fascinated. “What were you fighting?”

Spike broke in, sounding at the end of his tether and disgusted by it. “She was tryin’ to put down the First bloody Evil, mate. On top of that, there was a whole soddin’ army of prehistoric Turok-Han vamps from the bleedin’ Stone Age…”

Their contact sat back, looking shocked. “Well, that’s… a lot. Guess I wouldn’t necessarily want a bunch like that to get out.” He frowned. “But… who ever heard of an infestation of…” 

“You haven't and you never will. Because Spike here turned into a supernova and burned ‘em all to dust. Dusted himself while he was at it, had to be re-corporealized afterward.” Buffy was suddenly very, very tired. “Do you know if this ‘Slayer army of vengeance’ rumor is just some kind of normal ‘scared of what the Slayers are up to’ kind of thing, or if it just came out of nowhere, or…”

Spike jumped in, his expression as frustrated as she felt, the emotions ping-ponging between them a swamp of rage. “Yeah. Where’d you lot get this bullshit?”

The local demon-leader shrugged. “Dunno. It’s just been floating around since about last month. But…” A tilt of the head and a nod. “I’ll buy your side, and spread the word on that, too. It makes a lot of sense, especially considering everything you did on our side, down here, during the whole Hell-A thing. That backs you up, you know?” His eyes locked on Buffy’s, and he smiled, which was always a little bit unnerving, coming from a Thurgald. They had so damn many _teeth._ “Good thing for you, you know, that you were there. In Hell-A, with all of us, being a Champion to one of the Demon-Lords working to save everyone instead of trying to kill everyone.” The easy smile turned into an even more terrifying grin. “And, you know, that you two knocked out the Scourge. That’s really gonna buy you two a lot of credit on this side.” 

Relief. _God,_ what would today be like if they hadn’t stumbled into that whole battle with those leatherfaced jackasses? /What would things be like right now if I didn’t follow you into that battle here in LA last summer?/ Buffy found herself bearing down, hard, on Spike’s thigh, felt his hand descend to cover hers with equal intensity. 

The vagaries of fate were working double-time on their behalf, right now. Thank freaking goodness.

The Thurgald exhaled hard, then, and twitched his shoulders. “Here’s my only personal issue with your little offer. I can buy us working together, sure. Even with your whole little Slayer army; at least at the start, on the strength of your personal word. But what says you won’t turn on all of us any second if we…”

Buffy opened her mouth… and halted at the sudden, hushed stir behind them.

She turned, Spike swiveling at her side, in time to witness Illyria strolling down the narrow aisle between bar and tables, with an awed hush rolling before her like an almost-visible wave. In moments she was standing before their VIP contact, head cocked slightly in that way of hers that said that pretty much everyone was little more than a morsel she could strike and swallow up like a snake, or a bird of prey swallowing a worm to tide her over while she considered putting out the energy to fly up and go after the actual food she wanted. You know; if she ever actually decided to bother. 

Thurgald-boy stared up at her in clear, chilled concern. At the moment, he suddenly looked a lot smaller to Buffy's eyes than he had moments ago. “Old One,” he greeted her, and now he was stuttering slightly. “I… Welcome to my… I had no idea that you had come along with… With your former… Ah, please, do join…”

“I have no interest in joining you in your amusements, small one,” Illyria interrupted him smoothly. “I entered only to inform you that those who once ruled at my side are sincere in their offer, and that said offer will come but once. I require that you spread word of said offer to all others of your social stature within your networks, posthaste, as the threat they are fighting looms ever nearer. Our former compatriot, the vampire Angel of Angel Investigations, has joined the enemy's ranks in an effort to cleanse the world of demonkind; not only those who are detrimental to human concourse, but _all_ demonkind, so that he might no longer remain a pawn for the Powers That Be and the Senior Partners who currently rule this dimension. He has done this because he also feels he would be freeing the Slayers from their gessa of endless battles. He has not considered that to do so would be to destroy them.” The azure head untilted, and predatory eyes pinned the Thurgald leader to his wall. “I require that you and yours aid the Slayers in their endeavor to see that he and his new alliance are not successful in their attempt to turn the world over in its entirety to human control, as doing so would be disastrous to our aims.”

The Thurgald gaped. His mouth, hanging open now, wobbled for a moment, showing every fang and grinding surface. “I… Are… You… You’re _serious!”_

“I have no reason to mislead you.” Illyria's response was calm and unruffled as a pond under a summer sky.

“But… But that’s _insane!_ ”

“We have all been damaged by our time in the looped temporal dimensional shift which the City of Angels occupied last summer.” 

Thurgald-boy choked slightly, then relaxed into sardonic amusement. “Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth.” 

“Angel is only one such,” Illyria went on flatly. “His time there damaged his thinking, and exacerbated his urge to be done with his own gessa. He will sacrifice much, throw away many lives, to escape his own fate.”

/Oh, wow…/

Shaking his head, the Thurgald subsided back against his booth. “Holy, holy shit.” And his frightening, deep-set eyes shot back up to Illyria’s unmoved gaze. “Not that I’d ever question you, Old One. It’s just… It’s all so nuts…” 

“You will do as I have requested, and speak to others of your social standing? This ‘Twilight Group’ has stationed itself within the crater that is the former Sunnydale Hellmouth. They are at your gates.”

“Oh, hell.” Their contact straightened, and his eyes darted to Buffy and Spike. After a moment he leaned forward in mimicry of Buffy’s posture, abruptly ready to play ball. “Fine. I guess we can, uh, hammer out the details later?”

Buffy lifted a hand. “My girls—at least, the ones actually enrolled in my Organization, since I can’t speak for any Slayers who’re functioning off the reservation—won’t kill without due cause. That means letting normal commerce go by without a lot of flack, and only stepping in for the stuff we can’t let slide. Baby sacrifices, feeding off humans to the death, that sort of thing…”

The Thurgald grunted darkly. “That kind of crap interferes with business, anyway.”

Spike nodded. “What’d I say, pet? Off a Hellmouth, even LA has sane demons.”

Buffy shrugged it off. She’d seen it, after all, if not on the scale of Los Angeles. “I’m on call—and, maybe, on occasion, my sister-Slayer, the other oldest one, Faith, depending on her mood—to help knock out any heavy who’s leaning on you to pull off some big sacrifice you’d rather not, because it interferes with said business, or your ability to stay submerged or whatever…”

The Thurgald threw up a hand to call a brief halt. “What, like, say I had to pay a tribute to a Vaithanian every third year of Quaivahk, and that’s what has the Slayers up in arms, because it means I had to hire Ikhainian mercenaries from over in…”

Buffy had long since turned to Spike, brow raised. Spike interrupted at this point to be her demon encyclopedia, because he was helpful like that. “Big bloody snake thing,” he informed her blandly. “Like to eat babies.”

God, it was nice to have a mate who’d been around the demon block for over a hundred years. “Oh. Like Lurconis. Ew. I thought he was the only one of those nasty jerks.”

“Met one already, have you?” He sounded unsurprised, maybe a little amused.

“Yeah; we had to knock one off when we were fighting the Mayor.” 

“Yeah? That sod was paying off a Vaithanian? What a prick!" Spike picked up his drink and shook his head in disgust. "He had enough muscle to pay someone off to knock the fucker off, and he decided to pay it in babies instead?”

Buffy made a sour face, still holding her untouched rum and Coke. “Maybe he thought it’d look better to all the other nasties in town he planned to pay off the next week with kittens or virgins or whatever. That guy was all about ‘live in peace and badness together’, after all. He was the most ‘make nice’ bad guy I ever fought.”

“Hell,” Spike answered, and slamming down his now-empty tumbler, tugged a cigarette out. “Sometimes instead of placating every asshat with a yen for a tribute, you knock one bastard off. Makes the rest of ‘em run scared wondering should they make demands, or send you a nice prezzie, instead?” And he corked his mouth, hard, looking disgruntled in remembrance of her past struggles.

Buffy eyed her mate in retrospective interest as it occurred to her, wildly belatedly, that he had, at least for a short while, been her town’s default Master; and why had she never thought about that before? /Man. What would it have been like to work _with_ him, not against him, to control Sunnydale as a territory?/

Now, of course, they’d never know, but, just, wow. What a thing to realize in retrospect, because, holy jeez. /We woulda been unstoppable, wouldn’t we?/

Turning back to the conversation at hand, Buffy shook herself back to the present. “Sorry. Yeah. We’d help you, if necessary. We already did that kind of work over in S… In the town where we’ve set up shop. Makes for good relations with the locals…”

“Dozy old bitch, anyway,” Spike put in, all snarky, and lit up.

“Yeah. And gone now, so those local business-demons can keep on with their commerce now without paying a tribute that got them in the papers every year, with the humans wondering if there was some kind of annual, very weird serial killer on the loose.”

A long silence ensued, at the end of which the Thurgald leaned abruptly forward once more to set his empty tumbler down, hard, on the low table. “I’ll talk you up with the other leaders. I can’t promise anything. We all kinda go our own way, but…” His eyes flickered up to where Illyria stood, immobile and, as always, kind of scary in her statue-like expectancy. “If things go down…” His odd, frightening gaze slammed back into theirs, so that Buffy felt the weight of it. “I don’t mind saying that just on the weight of what you two did in Hell-A, most of us would probably follow you against bastards like that. I mean, most of us have heard about that Initiative thing, and we know you were involved in bringing it down. And _none_ of us wanna get wrapped up in shit like that again.”

And just like that, Buffy knew what it was like to have doubled her cred in an area, just by making two very split-second, and very personal, choices, separated by years of confusion. /Thank God when I made them, they were the right ones./ “I get it,” she answered quietly. She got that it wouldn’t be about believing in any future as far as cooperation went, so much as investing the necessities of the moment. She was just damn grateful that when push came to shove, she hadn’t played the local demons false recently. That her reputation in California was more 'tough-but-fair' than 'bitch with a grudge'. 

Hell. The fact that she'd also taken out a few hefty baddies and stopped more than a few apocalypses probably helped her, as well, since not a lot of these guys wanted to bet against her when it came to picking sides. Between that, the Initiative, and now recent events... /It's all just plain luck on top of a big rep, but I'll take it if it saves our asses now!/

At her side, Spike had slipped an arm behind her, was lightly stroking the small of her back with his right hand. Using that skin-to-skin contact as a kind of empathic conductor, he was feeding her a steadying vibe of reassurance and gratitude. She sent the feeling back to him, because he'd had a part in so much of what was saving their butts now, and thank god she'd had him for as long as she had, or who knew where they'd be right now.  
  
As if to reinforce their thoughts, their Thurgald interlocutor picked up the conversation once more. “Besides,” he informed them, leaning back once more and looking at his ease, “even if you didn’t have us, you’d have all the halfers. Those fuckers are practically ready to kiss your boots, you two, after the whole ‘took down the Scourge’ thing. Which… These days there’re more halfers than us mostly-pures, so if we wanna keep our businesses running…” He made a twisted sort of face. “I myself have at least fifty halfers out on the edges of my concerns, doing all the shit we can’t, you know? Delivery runs, cash fronts, hospitality. Stuff I can’t do and my enforcers can’t, because humans’d sniff ‘em out in an instant. Need the damn halfers just to make the numbers match up. Lose them by goin’ against you, the whole fucking thing goes under…”

“In the latter days of my reign, I considered the admixture of demonkind with humans to be a plague,” Illyria murmured distantly. “Now I see how it can be a strength, for it keeps my subjects functioning within this odd, dual society. I will permit it to continue, and even encourage it, so long as some constrain themselves to keeping their lines somewhat pure, so that our kind do not, in the end, breed themselves to extinction.”

The Thurgald grunted. “What she said.” And then a faint look of panic touched his sharp, hollow features. “With all respect, Old One.”

Illyria waved one hand, having apparently lost interest in the conversation. “I will go. I have done what I came here to do.” Her eyes flickered over to land, cerulean shading to indigo, on theirs. “I have enjoyed the human library of late. It is amusing to peruse the documents there, and expand my understanding of the limited human point of view on the universe.” She tilted her head again. “As well, I find it soothing to remain in a building which has been named for Wesley Wyndham-Price.”

Spike lifted a brow. “The library’s named for Percy, is it?”

“Angel has used his considerable cachet with the city, since the events of last summer, to see to it the UCLA establishment was renamed in his honor, and in honor of the woman who made my shell. It is odd in some ways to stand within the edifice while wearing her form, but also strangely alluring. Some who knew her in that place speak to me with such reverence while I am clothed in her flesh, it feels almost as if I am being worshiped once more.” That expression touched her features again; the one Buffy had learned to equate with ‘Illyria, uncomfortable’. “I remain confused by this deep fascination for a mere mortal, this reverence, but I know I must continue to study it if I am to understand what I will need to know in order to free Wes from his durance at the hands of the upstart Wolf, Ram, and Hart. I will thus endeavor.”

Buffy blinked, uncertain what she meant. She still intended to break Wes’ ghost free from his contract, somehow? And why would understanding his love, everyone’s love for Fred, help her with that?

“Oh,” Spike murmured, and to Buffy’s surprise, he had his heartbroken tone on, the shock of something profound striking him to roll along and slam into her through their bond. “Oh, Blue… that’s the hell of a lot to put on yourself.”

“I will endeavor,” Illyria repeated, then halted briefly to turn to them. “Angel has said that the Wolf, Ram, and Hart have a branch of their offices in the city you have just left. Is this still so?”

“What, in Vegas?” Buffy frowned at her, glanced over at Spike. “I mean, we didn’t go looking, considering the bastards just tried to send a murderer after us to steal Spike’s soul… But I think so?”

Spike had his fingers to his lips now, watching his ex-co-leader with a strangely concerned expression on his face, though Buffy honestly couldn’t really read his vibe anymore. “Far as we know, the Vegas branch is still kickin’, pet. Bastards that they are.”

Illyria nodded. “I will go there, I think. I will demand from those upstarts an audience with Wesley. I must speak to him, and they should have enough respect for me even in this diminished state that they will permit me this boon.” She did her little proto-reptilian head-movement once more. “If they have recently wronged you, do you wish me to seek vengeance in your name?”

Buffy froze, alarmed, and shot a glance at Spike. Talk about possibly starting even more trouble. /Probably best right now to let the jerks sit with the realization that their little scheme failed. Though, to be fair I’m not the happiest that they seem to know where we are. They could sell that info to Angel and his Twilight people if they want…/

Spike frowned, fingers touching his lips. “Let’s hold off on that till we know more about what they were after, innit, pet? Though, we’re grateful for the offer.” He glanced up at his former co-ruler. “That contract was a pretty airtight thing, Blue. Not sure you’re gonna pry him out from under it. They’ve got their claws in him pretty tight.” 

Illyria’s cobalt gaze went frigid on his. “Wes is _mine_. He was mine before he was ever theirs. They would do well to remember it. They will learn it again, in time.” Without another word, she turned to exit the bar with the same measured tread with which she had entered. 

The rolling tide of fascinated observation and awe followed her out, just as it had upon her entrance.

“Man,” their Thurgald companion muttered after she’d exited, “you two had some balls, begging your pardon, Slayer, to co-rule with someone like her for however long. Didn’t she lose the human puppet and go all-out at one point in Hell? Heard someone who’d made it that far say she wrecked the fuckin’ city like goddamn Godzilla or some shit.”

“She was very impressive,” Buffy answered in a murmur, trying not to think of Groo's gruesome death. Turning back, she kept it bland. “We’re all a lot safer with her inside her little human cage.” /What the hell is she planning?/

Heck, with Illyria to contend with, maybe Wolfram and Hart would be too busy to bother them again for a while anyway. She hoped so, since god knew they had enough to deal with right now, between Twilight, and baby Slayers, and who knew what the hell else…

Beside her, Spike was watching the door, clearly just as concerned as she was. “She’s impressive enough as she is. Hell.” 

Picking up his drink again—it had been magically refilled in the interim by one of his hovering attendants—their contact lifted it. “Well. Hell. To future cooperation, I guess, huh?”

Buffy caught Spike’s eye briefly as she lifted her own glass. It wasn’t anything really solid, but it sure the heck could’ve gone worse… and in a way, the cred they had with the California demon population way outsold the painstaking thing they’d been building in Europe. That was all sight-unseen, based entirely on a single goodwill event—the Scourge thing—while this? 

She had not just the Scourge but Hell-A and taking down the Initiative on her side, Glory... and maybe stopping Angelus from doing the Acathla thing, depending on the demon point of view on that whole deal, since most demons weren’t huge fans of either vamps or total and complete world-endage. Granted, she had fallen into Hell-A by accident, taken down the Initiative sort of in passing and without a whole lot of intention, and the Angelus thing… Well. Less said about that the better… but still. She needed all the credit she could get with the locals, considering it had to weigh in against six-and-a-half years of indiscriminate killing. But considering that everyone involved knew the score on that—she was a Slayer, they were demons, that was just how the game was played, the hellmouth had been her territory to hunt in, and other demon-y logic puzzles like that—she might just skate by on this. After all, as Spike had since informed her, _“If the sods didn’t wanna die, they shouldn’t’ve come. They knew there was a Slayer in town. You don’t wanna get dead, don’t swagger into a town with an acting sheriff in the burgh.”_

He really was into his whole wild west analogy when it came to the hellmouth. Not that it was inaccurate or anything. But luckily so far it seemed like there were no hard feelings from this southern set; or at least that her more recent actions somewhat balanced out her younger, trigger-happy ones. /We’ll see how it goes./

They finished their drinks and made their excuses after a little more time spent talking business with their Thurgald friend; whose name, by the way, turned out to be a very unprepossessing ‘Zavier’, though he preferred to be called ‘Z’, probably because it sounded edgier. Z was mostly in nightclubs, bars, alcohol, and shipping, and seemed to have his fingers in not a few other pies. He was trying to get an edge in on hospitality, of late. “You spending the night in town?” he asked as they made to leave.

Buffy shrugged. “I mean, we could leave before sunrise. We still have to renegotiate our tickets with the airline; but we’re in no hurry.” She glanced over at Spike. “We could maybe rent a car, run up to SanFran, see Dawn, if you think we’d make it up there before morning. Meet this Movic kid she’s dating…”

Spike grunted. “Bit’d never forgive us, we came this close and didn’t drive up to see her.”

That was the god’s honest truth. They’d never hear the end of it. “Good thing you have that fancy magic driver’s license. If Wolfram and Hart ever decided to delete your file in revenge for Hell-A, we'd never be able to afford a rental, with my record…”

“I’ll get you a car,” Z put in magnanimously, and at their surprised looks, waved a hand. “Big heroes and shit, right? Just leave it at the airport in Frisco when you’re done with it and let whatever halfer you see around there know whose it is. Word'll trickle down to me. Or, if you really wanna make it easy on me, you can leave word at Club Disaster."

/Club Disaster. What a name.../   
  
"Meantime, if you do decide to stay for the night, you should hit up my club here in town. Elite. It’s got a Mayan vibe, but it’s really taking off since everyone got back from Hell-A. I think a lot of the human locals are using the mixed crowd to kind of get some mental therapy, you know? Remind themselves they weren’t dreaming?” Off their surprised looks, “It’s subtle, but it’s a hotspot.” A shrug. “Either way, I’ll have the car posted up there, with a guy to hold it for you. Grab the keys there, head north tonight or wait till later. It’ll have necro-glass.”

“Nice,” Spike answered, sounding surprised. “Where the bloody hell…”

“Few places around here do it. It’s the cheap kind; not that fancy tint shit that’s built into the glass. That shit’s money. This is the pasted-on film shit, but it works, long as you don’t scrape it, you know? Anyway, it’s all good.” 

Clearly whether he wanted the deal they’d dropped on him or not, he definitely wanted to stay in their personal good graces. Which was cool, and Buffy would take it. “Thank you, Z,” she answered sincerely. “We appreciate the gesture.”

“I appreciate the necro-glass,” Spike put in as he stubbed out his smoke. “Haven’t had that since I was working for that sodding law firm. Was handy.”  
  
Buffy eyed him with interest, wondering if there were other perks to working for WR&H that he missed. The place had roiled with evil and had been a labyrinth of banal horrors, per his recounting… but it hadn’t wanted for cash and easy living. It made her wonder at the incentives he had eschewed to stay strong, keep fighting the good fight in a way that even Angel had almost failed to do. Her guy, who was so tempted by things hedonistic; touch, taste, smell, feel, and had only just begun to learn how to curb himself, because he had scared himself, gotten the soul... “Don’t tell me they also had a blood fountain there, or…”

“Was sort of a smoothie-maker, down by the coffee-bar,” Spike told her without so much as a glance, and shrugged. “Peaches had them take away all the human blood from it, that came from God alone knew where. Though you’d think, with all the asshat lawyers they had working there, they could’ve humanely supplied the thing with a weekly donation of a half-pint from every non-demonic employee, no harm no foul.” He snorted then, derisive. “I’d wager it was his own self-control issues in question, made him keep such a tight lid on restrictions in the place, as much as worrying about what the rest of us would do if we fell off the soddin’ wagon. Had ‘em replace it with horse and otter and shit; weird boutique blood." His face creased into an odd, half-disgusted, half-amused expression. "Think I had fucking tiger blood from that thing once. Which was a strange goddamn experience, let me tell you.”

“Okay, ew.”

“Was different.”

 _“Sounds_ like it.” Shaking her head, Buffy rustled up a pretty smile for their host. “I hope it doesn’t come to a battle, and we won’t ever have to talk again. But if it does, Z… we’ll work out the details on the fly. I’m not going to pretend, in a situation like that, that some of your people won’t get a little out of hand, or hangry. I know what it’s like. My hope is it’ll just all end up as one big intimidation display. But if not…”

“Yeah. Gotcha. We’ll figure it out.” Z waved them off. “Meantime, got some talking to do up and down the network.”

“Appreciate it,” Spike put in, and inclined his head. 

“Sure, sure. Have a nice visit.” It was not quite a dismissal, but clearly he was tired of thinking about such headache-inducing subject matter for the moment.

They made their departure.

At the exit, they nodded to the stone-faced Movic bouncer and stepped out of the smoky interior, and into the relatively fresher smog of Torrance. Buffy followed Spike's gaze up into the glowing skies of LA at night. “So,” her vampire inquired, cupping her elbow. “Dancing, to celebrate, or do we just grab this car of his and head north?”

“You know…” Buffy shrugged. “I’m honestly okay with checking out the club. Briefly. Just to not-think for a few. Since he was so nice and offered us a car we can take up there during the day." She blew out a lungful of air she felt like she'd been holding the entire time she'd been in the smoky club, and laid her head on his shoulder. "I know you’d drive and stuff, but the idea of heading all the way up the coast right now sounds…”

“A bit much,” Spike agreed with a nod. “‘S been a long bloody day.”

The drive to the nightclub in question was a relatively short one; only about twenty minutes. They circled for a while, looking for parking… and were flagged down at one point by a tall, lanky person who looked faintly Lister around the edges, who was standing nervously next to a really nice-looking silver BMW with tinted windows. “Hey. Uh…” He waved as they leaned out of their windows to answer his anxious summons. “Uh, the boss said to pass you the keys to this. Tried to find you a good spot…”

“Yeah. Appreciate it,” Spike answered, and made a face as someone honked loudly behind them. “Only problem is trying to find a spot for this one, till we can come back and dump it off at the lot, later.”

“Oh, uh, I can do that for you.” The part-Lister leaned over to glance at the sticker. “There’s, uh, an Enterprise lot over in Central, just a few miles south. With a night-drop for keys. I’ll even clean it out for you. No problemo.” 

Honestly, Buffy’d be a little worried about leaving something like that with just anybody, since, you know, that was thousands of dollars worth of car in some rando’s hands with their names on the pink slip. But A, this guy worked for a demon contact who would probably rip his head off if he crossed him, and B… This dude was part-Lister. As far as they could determine, everyone with even a tiny ounce of Lister in their veins left in the world tended to act like they were some sort of minor deities these days, since the whole Scourge thing. 

/And, really, if we have to do this, later, one of us would have to drive the rental, and one of us would have to drive the demon-car. Which means one way or the other, I’ll be menacing the streets of LA from inside a moving vehicle, after drinks, at fuck-o'clock in the morning./ Which, okay. It’d be like 2 AM, so less traffic, but still. /Buffy plus cars equals never a good idea./ She would probably take the demon-owned vehicle, since if she smashed that one up they could explain it away a lot easier than owing thousands in insurance to a car rental corporation. But still, she would have spent the entire enterprise—heh. Enterprise—essentially tailing Spike to the point she literally climbed right up his proverbial butt the whole way. And yeah, she might have made it to the lot in one piece, despite her (lack of) self-confidence in the endeavor, but… Okay. She would have to not-drink first, the entire time at the club, which sounded not-relaxing, and also? Call her a selfish bitch, but after an incredibly long day and a some mucho relaxing dancing, she really would rather just sit back and let Spike take the wheel of any moving vehicle than follow it up with such an incredibly anxious-making procedure, thank you very much. 

Spike grinned at her pleading eyes, because he was a good sport, shrugged, and stepped out of the car they were in to bend and pop the trunk. “Right, then. Appreciate it, mate.”

“All in a day’s work, man. Or, you know, night’s.” The Lister was already jogging around to open the trunk of the Beamer, after which he, no shit, practically ran over to their trunk and started grabbing their bags to toss them in to the other car, as if the ever-more-strident honking behind them was bothering him as much as it was setting Buffy’s teeth on edge. “Here. Got you all switched over. Here you go…” He tossed Spike the keys to the new car. “Anything else in there?”

Buffy was feeling little more than amusement at this point. “No, I think that’s it.” She’d grabbed her drink, her wallet, her small travel backpack. Spike had repossessed the duster, which contained the better part of his worldly possessions when he traveled, and was carrying it laid over his right arm beside a pack of half-smoked cigarettes. 

“Great. Good. Have a fantastic night.” Their contact moved to sidle around to the driver’s seat, slithered in in front of Spike, started to adjust the thing to accommodate his longer frame… then glanced up at them with eyes that, at this shorter distance, managed to look awed. “Thank _you_. For everything. Just… really. Thank you.”

He shut the door and drove off before they could answer, and dangit, that whole thing was really starting to get embarrassing.

“Well,” Spike murmured as they skipped back toward the other car to avoid being run down by the impatient vehicles held back too long by the transfer, “our reputation precedes us every-bloody-where of late, innit?”

“Ugh. What, do they have murals of us up somewhere or something?” She stuck her drink in the new car, futzed around with her bag to pull out her ID and a couple of bucks, tossed her wallet inside, and let him lock up.

Pulling on the duster, Spike made a face and, predictably, struck up a light as they strode down the sidewalk toward the tail end of the long line of waiting hopefuls straggling around the corner of the club. “Hell. Would you look at that. You think our mate Z put the word in for us to get into the sodding place, as well?”  
  
“Guess we’ll find out.” Buffy smiled faintly and tucked her hands into his elbow. He blinked over at her, startled as he always was whenever she acted like they were on an actual date. “Meantime, it’s still barely April, you know. You gonna be a gentleman and keep the lady warm?”

Spike came to an abrupt halt and turned to regard her fully. “You actually asking me to give you the duster, pet?”

She grinned at him in challenge. “What, you don’t think it’d look good on me?”

He exhaled hard, between his teeth. “You know I do. I just never thought you’d…” He stared for a moment in clear amazement.

“Well?” /This is fun./ Honestly, finding little ways to throw him for a loop, after they'd been together this long, was starting to become a really good game.

He went on staring at her for a long moment, like he was trying to read her in a new language, then, “You do know I’m not a gentleman, yeah?”

She just kept her eyes on him and held out her arms, spread wide. 

“Oh, hell.” Shaking his head, and in a clear state of shock, he stripped off his prized second skin and reached out to drape it over her. And though it was in no way warmed from his body or anything, and though it dwarfed her, there was something wildly sensual about pulling on the garment that was such a part of him, was so very incredibly steeped in him. That said ‘Spike’ to her, in every way. 

She tugged it tight around her, aware if what it probably meant to him in the whole ‘full acceptance’ department, that she saw it as enough a part of him by now to wear it without remotely considering the whole ‘used to belong to a Slayer he’d offed’ portion of its history. Besides… by now, considering the thing had been pieced back together out of magicks and wishful thinking back in Rome, most of it was probably not even the same coat anymore, anyway. Not that he liked to think of it that way. So she just smiled up at him, glad she was wearing heeled boots today, so the dang thing probably wasn’t dragging on the ground. “Well?”

She was nearly flattened by the surge of lust that slammed through him to bowl her over. “Slayer,” he informed her in low, grating tones, “you should know that you are very, very lucky we are in such a public venue right now, because otherwise you’d already be shagged so fucking hard you wouldn’t know your sodding name anymore.”

“Oh. Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” she answered, grinning sunnily at him, and cocked her head to one side, amazed at the furious, thrumming quality of the want in his eyes, his body, pounding between them. Her body answered, of course, which made it even more fun to hold onto that tide, keep it between them to simmer for later. “What, didn’t you ever put it on Dru?”

“Don’t… It’s not… It’s not the same sodding thing at all, and you know it, Slayer.”

She knew it, hence the very innocent tones of her question. “So, were we gonna go get in line, or…”

“You drive me mad, woman.”

He was cute, all talking through his teeth like that. “I know,” she answered cheerfully, and turned on her heel to march ahead of him and join the tail end of the chattering line of people. He followed after a moment of probably watching her walk away with his fists opening and closing while he sought for control, and _hee_ , this was fun!  
  
They were in line for only about ten minutes—minutes spent mostly with her leaning up against his body, teasing him shamelessly and enjoying the way he flirted back in self-defense as his cognitive abilities slowly came back on-line—before he stilled abruptly, one hand freezing in its journey up along the small of her back, beneath the warming skin of his coat. “Oh, bloody Christ, you have _got_ to be joking…”

“What?” she whispered, and nipped at his neck. 

She stopped when his fingers, having trailed up along the terrain of her body to her hair, clenched against her scalp, and she read, belatedly, frustration and shock growing in him to bleed through their link and overtake his enjoyment of their game of libido chicken. “What, Spike?”

He was half-growling when he replied, speaking words she would never have thought to hear him say in this context. Really, in any current context.  
  
“Fucking Harmony’s in this queue."

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


(Quote by William Blake)

Hehe, the next chapter is way too damned fun. Can't wait to post it, even if you guys are riding right up my butt in terms of stuff I have ready-written.

Thank you all again!!!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one also riffs off of comics canon (which really veers off into some cray-cray territory, let me tell you!), but does my usual whammy against it to make things better, in the long run, for our heroes, by making them front-and-center to the action and therefore allowing them to screw up another of Twilight's little ploys to make Slayers look bad. 
> 
> Harmony ahoy!

“There is only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, and that’s your own self.” 

* * *

  
Buffy burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. “Well, that’s just our luck, isn’t it?” she asked, feeling only mild exasperation. “What is this, the week of Spike’s exes?” Shaking her head, she pressed closer to him. “Well, ignore it.”

Apparently he couldn’t, though, considering he was rigid as a marble statue right now. “What, you smell her, or whatever? Can’t you tune it out?” She slipped a hand lower, flirted with the top button of his jeans. “You’re gonna hurt my feelings if you tell me I’m not enough to distract you.”

He rolled his eyes, hands sliding down to tighten against her waist, under the duster. “Don’t be daft, Buffy.” His gaze was distant, though, as he stared around them, seeking. “Fuck. There she is. Just there…”

Buffy rolled her eyes right back at him before she followed his gaze obediently… and there she was indeed. His so-called ‘former’, standing about five couples up in the line, fawning over some nerdy-looking guy with a lot of messy, blond hair and thick, dark glasses standing up near the front, in between the red velvet ropes. Dude must have been someone important-ish, though Buffy didn’t recognize him, since there were people over on the other side of the barrier taking pictures of him while he ignored them to chat with Harmony. He was, after all, otherwise absorbed, looking pleased as punch to be flirting with a ditzy blonde with big tits. “Okay? So she’s hitting on some guy…” Working through it, Buffy frowned slightly in recognition of Spike’s possible issue. “Some famous guy, which could be a problem, if… What; you think she’s hunting?” It would explain his current tension. “I thought she was on the wagon.”

Spike was doing the blue-lazers thing, all focused on the other vampire. “She was before. When she was working for Angel. No telling what she’s up to now. She betrayed him, got a bloody reference. For all we know, she’s off snacking on the locals every night and then filing her bloody nails in front of a sodding computer the next morning…”

Buffy sighed regretfully at the way the vibe rolling off of him had utterly changed. “Fine. We’ll go check in with her. But please tell me,” she informed him, catching his chin in her hand, and dragged his eyes firmly back to hers. “…That afterward, I get my vampire back? I wanna dance.”

His preoccupied gaze caught, warmed. “Right. Sorry, luv. It’s just…”

“I get it. And I appreciate it. You know I do. I just like having you all to myself, is all.”

“And _I_ appreciate that.” He kissed the tip of her nose, before turning out of the line to lead her in Harmony’s direction. 

Buffy followed in his wake, squaring her shoulders in preparation for the upcoming conversation-slash-confrontation. Dealing with Harmony was irritating at the best of times. Right now, what with the having to switch gears from sexytimes-thoughts to Slayer-Buffy, she wasn’t best pleased by the interruption.

They sidled closer to the tall, leggy blonde. Her strident voice became louder, easier to pick out as they neared, at which point Buffy could practically feel the remains of Spike’s already seriously dented libido drop to nil. /Sigh./ 

Might as well make it a business meet, then.

Buffy assessed the vampire who had once been a classmate, as they shoved between grumbling, pissed off wannabe-clubgoers and the growing crowd of paparazzi to draw level with her. She had only seen Harmony once since she’d left Sunnydale, when stepping into Wolfram and Hart to get the 411 about Spike, only to get the runaround about Angel. She’d looked pretty well-turned out then, of course, as the assistant to the CEO of a major law firm. 

/She must be doing well for herself nowadays/ was Buffy’s first thought. Harmony was wearing some fairly nice clothes; tight dress, well-cut, though not a big name or anything, really sweet shoes, good-quality makeup…

She was so caught up in what she was doing—or was so ill-trained, even with all that had happened in Sunnydale—that she didn’t notice the Slayer vibe, because she didn’t turn at their approach. Not till someone bitched about their cutting in line. She just kept on playing her game with her catch; flirting, playing the cute, brainless bimbo; not that that was a stretch for her. Right now she was walking her fingers up glasses-guy’s open-necked shirt all slow and bouncy, to his clear delight, talking about getting his nose…

“Hey, Harm.”

Wow. Talk about being oblivious to your surroundings. That she hadn’t even smelled Spike at his approach was saying something. “Oh!” she exclaimed, spinning to stare. “Blondie-b… I mean, hey, Spike! Uh, long time no see!” Then she caught sight of Buffy and blinked. “Oh, and, uh, Buffy… Hi. How are you…” She shrank back against the guy she’d been charming just moments ago. “I’m not doing anything wrong, I swear! I’m off the hard stuff…”

Buffy held up a hand. “We just saw you and came up to say hi. As long as you’re being good, we have no problems.”

“Oh. Okaaay…”

The man she was clinging to turned his head to eye them, patting her shoulder awkwardly. “Uh, Harmony, my dear, introduce me to your, ah… friends?”

Harmony underwent a rather surprising transformation at this reminder. “Oh! Right!” And she giggled in a slightly forced way, straightening to pat the man’s chest. “Buffy, Spike, this is Andy Dick, _famous comedian_.” 

/Okay, sure./ Buffy didn’t recognize the guy, though to be fair, she was a little out of touch with American pop culture of late.

As if in recognition that they were ‘somebody’, now that the supposedly famous guy’s date knew them, cameras turned on Buffy and Spike and began snapping away, and ugh. Now there were flashes on them, and there would be photos, and why had they come back to LA again?

“…Andy, this is Spike, my ex, and his, uh, current girlfriend, Buffy Summers, who, uh…”

“We went to high school together,” Buffy interrupted, in hopes of saving the encounter from devolving into some kind of weird attempt at explaining things no standard human was ready to hear. Who knew how much this guy—if he had even been in town for the fiasco last year—remembered about Hell-A, or wanted to. Best to avoid such discussions until they’d felt the thing out a little first.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you both. You should join us!” The comedian frowned then. “Though I’m not sure why Harmony is acting like she’s worried that you might accuse her of something…”

“Oh,” Harmony strained-laughed again, trying to blow it off. “I’m in, uh… Weight-Watchers! Yeah; and Buffy’s just a real, you know, nazi about it. She’s always on us other Weight-Watchers girls to stay honest about our, uh, calories…”

“It’s a team effort,” Buffy answered, with only a modicum of snark. /Just, wow./

Spike snorted; a wealth of dry sarcasm.

The comedian immediately switched gears from confused-guy to stand-up mode. “What’s the deal with women being in Weight-Watchers who don’t need to be?” he asked of Spike, and then, waving his hands, of the other two or three people around him. “I mean, c’mon. Give us something to hang onto! Who wants to date a Slip-n-Slide?”

“Right?” a Latino guy to one side chimed in with a chuckle, and dragged closer a girl who definitely had curves. 

Spike’s lips twitched, and he lifted the cigarette he’d forgotten all about in the last few minutes, what with one thing and the other. Apparently just being around Harmony stressed him out. “Yeah. Tend to agree. Which is why it’s not my girl who’s on the diet. It’s me.”

The comedian blinked, taken aback, then glanced up and down Spike’s body as if amazed. “But, hold up. You look great too. Why should you…”

“Got to stay in shape for my bird, mate. She demands a high standard from her bloke.”

Buffy rolled her eyes again, this time for his caustic antics, and turned to Harmony. “So, anyway, good to see you. How’ve you been? You know, since you had to switch jobs…”

“Oh,” Harmony answered, shifting breathlessly to the new subject. “You know. Doing auditions in between secretary work. It's nothing like as demanding as it was being the personal assistant to a CEO..."  
  
"I bet." Give credit where it was due, Harmony had held up for a long time under a lot of pressure at what was probably a pretty thankless job. Buffy figured being the go-to girl while Angel was swinging like a barn door between good and pretend-evil couldn't have been fun. Not when he was probably being as moody and distracted as he ever had been as Angelus. Which, per Spike, was about the way it had been there for most of that year. Not to mention, keeping up with who knew how many daily demands from every direction, at a place the size of Wolfram and Hart.   
  
Buffy knew she couldn't have done that job. She'd have just killed people to simplify things, eventually. /And, well, in a way, she did. Probably she betrayed Angel because she wasn't getting her due. And, heck; even adding that scheme in on top of everything, when you think about it, would've been another detail to keep track of, so jeez. I guess Harmony's smarter than she looks./ "Props. Seriously."  
  
Harmony seemed to bloom under her approbation. "Thank you! See, no one gets it!" She shrugged then, blowing it off as quickly as she'd protested. "But having that on my resume for almost a year's really helped me get jobs. They keep saying I'm overqualified. About time someone noticed what I did there..." Their vampire acquaintance sounded a little put-upon for a sec before bouncing back. "But all these barely-tough jobs mean I have a lot more time to use the phones to work with my agent..."  
  
Spike snorted again. Harmony shot him a glare. "But _Andy_ here…” she went on, and turned the melting butter routine on her night's catch. She clung some more and flashed the big ol' headlamps at the hapless guy. “He says he can maybe get me an in to some people he knows over at NBC, or maybe even MTV…”

Okay, Buffy didn’t buy that. From what she understood, comedians, unless they were super in-demand, were kind of cowboys, not part of any big properties. But whatever Harmony wanted to believe. /Or, whatever this guy wants to tell her to get laid./ Though, to be fair, maybe they should warn him somehow that he was about to climb into bed with a vampire…

“Wait. Why are you wearing Spike’s coat?” Harmony interrupted herself mid-harangue to blink at Buffy, then turn her eyes to stare over at Spike in clear accusation. “You never let _me_ wear your precious, stupid coat!”

Spike opened his mouth to say something that, judging from his mood, was likely to be exceedingly cutting. Buffy attempted to head him off with an elbow to the belly. They were here to make nice and figure out a way to ensure his ex wasn’t about to eat anyone tonight, not to rile her up. 

Unfortunately, she was a little late, missed the first half of Spike’s rebuttal. “Buffy’s not you, Harm,” he informed her dryly, “and you’re not Buffy.”

“I was cold, is all, Harmony,” Buffy tried to smooth it over. “Don’t mind him. He didn’t have breakfast this evening.”

Harmony straightened, looking pissy. “I may not be _her_ , Spike,” she snapped back, “but I sure stood in just fine the minute you had your body back, didn’t I?”

Spike turned to stone. “You were _there_ , Harm. That’s _all_.” His words were bitten off flatly, and in that moment, Buffy could feel nothing from him at all.

/Okay, what’s that about?/ “Uh, whatever you two are arguing about, could we please keep it polite in front of the civilians? It’s probably not the best place to get into a knockdown-dragout…”

“Oh, didn’t he _tell_ you?” Harmony jumped in gleefully, cutting her off to swing around and look at her with excitement, as if smelling blood on the water. “The second he got his body back and wasn’t a stupid ghost anymore, he dragged me off into the closest empty office and…” Her big eyes shifted up to Spike’s, vindictive and sharp. “How do you always put it? 'Shagged me blind'.” She smiled simperingly. “Of course, you couldn’t finish that time, which kind of makes you look bad, but it sure puts it into perspective, all that time you spent whining about how the second you got your body back, you were gonna go straight to wherever Buffy was. Buffy this, Buffy that, and then the first thing you did was… Well, _me_.”

“Uh… maybe I should go somewhere else for a sec,” Andy Dick broke in, sounding way embarrassed to be involved in their little discussion.

Buffy barely heard him. She closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath as she fought through a huge cloud of confusing emotion, maybe only one part her own, and definitely many parts Spike’s alarm, fury, and frustration over the situation. /Shut _up_ , Spike, and let me think!/ 

Feeling her sharp internal shove, he, for a wonder, did, backing off and shutting down to give her the space to process. And all the sudden she was alone with her own thoughts, her own reactions, as she tried to contemplate exactly where her sensual, hedonistic vampire had been during that particular period of things. Which would have been… /Well, considering he hadn’t had a body for months, he’d have been losing his mind, probably, to feel anything. Taste, smell, touch; _anything_. He was probably just so relieved to have sensations again that…/ 

And she was well aware that he had never loved Harmony. That all they had ever had was brainless sex-to-relieve-anxiety. Harmony for him was like smoking an animated cigarette; one that could smoke him back, essentially. /Just because I can’t have sex without it meaning something, doesn’t mean he…/ Obviously someone who’d been through the things Spike had, could. She used to think she couldn’t separate sex from love, had told herself she couldn’t, but she knew very well that she could, or she wouldn’t have been able to sleep with Parker, or with Riley, much as she had lied to herself about that; or Spike at all, in the beginning. /Not that we didn’t have… caring./ But it had been… messy, all three times. 

On the other hand, separating sex from love was as easy as flipping a switch for someone who’d experienced the things her guy had done, and been done to. And she got that, by now, after feeling what she had felt from him. They were very different people. 

/And, the last time we were together, back then, it had been after I’d kissed Angel in front of him, like an idiot, so he was all messed up in the head about me. I knew why he didn’t come to me, after that. Between all that crap, and now, this… Heck, no wonder he was scared to come to where I was. Because I probably wouldn’t have got it, then. Put that on top of everything else…/ 

It was just another puzzle-piece to the whole damn stupid mess of that year. 

And, all of this was so far in the past it didn’t really matter at all. Around then she had thought him dead, and could have been off, in his lexicon, ‘shagging’ anyone; trying to forget. Trying to feel anything, make it better. Heck; he’d thought she was screwing the Immortal in that same year, if not at the same time, so, whatever. That she hadn’t wanted anyone else didn’t mean much, considering she knew that whether he’d banged Harmony or not hadn’t changed the fact that he hadn’t really wanted the other vampire. He’d wanted _her_ , would _always_ want her, had probably thought he would never have her again, and all that crap.

The only weird thing was that it had never come up in all the time they’d spent together since. Maybe he’d thought it was just that unimportant; which, considering the way Spike thought, it probably wasn’t. In fact, in a way it was yet another point for that side. It certainly hardly mattered anymore… though god knew it would’ve been nice not to be blindsided by it during an unexpected _tete a tete_ with a pissed-off Harmony. “Well, I’d imagine it might tell you something, Harmony, that he couldn’t finish,” Buffy heard herself saying, because really, that had been the most telling part of the entire reveal. Spike, not getting off during sex? When it was the first time he had felt any sensations at all in three _months_ or something?

Especially with a partner with whom he didn’t particularly care about her pleasure (which almost seemed out of character to consider, but she knew that it could happen in such circumstances). After that long without, he should’ve gone off like a rocket in thirty seconds, even if Harmony had been another bot. /Which, to be fair, he’d probably treated the bot like more of a person than he’d ever treated Harmony, because she was a stand-in for me. Which is kind of depressing, but also kind of real./

She could feel the way Spike trembled, still holding back from her. He was clearly more than a little worried about how she might react to this late-breaking revelation, the dope. /Seriously. Like it’s gonna matter at this stage of the game? You banged Harmony again, one time, when you were all screwed up in the head, and we were… No one even knows what the hell we were, or if we would ever be anything again. Meanwhile, when _I_ came back from the dead I treated you like a living sex doll when I banged you, and otherwise acted like you were a dog turd on my shoe. Which of us is the worst person in this scenario?/

Sighing heavily, she lifted a hand to shove it through her hair, then shook her head and faced down her ex-classmate. “Look. I’m sorry that you feel so pushed out, that we’re together. And I’m sorry that you feel like Spike played with your heart because of whatever happened between you then, and before. But unfortunately… what you two had was just a sex thing. And that’s all it was ever going to be.”

At her side, Spike drew himself up, relief leaking out from around the edges of the shield he had hastily erected between them so that she could feel her own feels. As well he might, she supposed.

Reaching out, she found it in herself to pat Harmony on one cool hand. “Spike really only has two modes,” she explained softly to the young vampire. “He loves completely, or he doesn’t at all. He can have sex without love, but he doesn’t slowly work his way into loving someone, no matter how much sex he has with them. That’s more my MO,” she admitted with a faint, self-deprecating grin, and shot Spike a glance that had him blinking at her in startlement. “Or,” she sobered, “at least that’s what I told myself. With him, he’s always all or nothing, from the start, so I’m really sorry that you felt like if you just banged him for long enough, he’d fall for you, because it was never going to be that way. He wasn’t playing you, Harmony…” And now she could feel bad for this girl her own age who had been in love with Spike—like, who wouldn’t be, right?—but in a relationship with a version of him who had probably been kind of an ass (because that’s who Spike was when he wasn’t in love; pretty much just kind of an ass). “He was just being real,” she informed Harmony softly. “You were what you were, and that was all it was ever going to be.” 

Harmony exhaled long and tremulously, then nodded, blinking fast at the tears that were currently welling up in her eyes. “Yeah,” she admitted finally. “I know it. I mean, I got that a long time ago. It’s just… I had him, for a while, you know? He was my blondie-bear. And, I got that he was always into you, but I guess I just thought that maybe…” She shrugged a little. “I’m always playing second fiddle to someone. First Cordy, then she left, came here, then when I finally thought I’d get to be top of the heap, get the hot guy, be a powerful vampire, it turned out you were this other thing, this stronger thing, the Slayer, and Spike was already in love with you…”

Spike hissed in warning. It was too late, though. Cameras were everywhere, and the listening comedian had straightened, looking both alarmed and excited. “You’re… a vampire?” he exclaimed, hushed and amazed.  
  
/Oh fuck, oh God, no.../

“Oh.” Harmony blinked herself back into the reality of the moment. “Yeah. Sorry. Did I forget to say that?” At his stunned expression, the faint hints of his leaning back, away from her, she sighed and threw up a hand. “Oh, great, now he’s gonna run away. Thanks a lot, guys.” She turned to him, almost begging. “Look, don’t take back the whole ‘introducing me to people’ thing, okay? I’m a nice vampire! Just ask _them!_ That whole ‘Weight-Watchers’ thing was a lie. I mean, I _am_ on a diet; it’s just, the diet is that I’m on non-human blood. Like him!” She waved a hand at Spike, who wisely didn’t correct her. “Or, well, I mean, sometimes I can afford human; you know, from the back of the hospital, before it goes bad, but that’s like, a high-class dinner once a month, or…”

The comedian turned to take in Buffy and Spike, looking startled and with the beginnings of interest. “So, you two are also…”

Buffy fought down a groan, her belly swooping in horror. She tried to ignore the excited murmurings all around them, the way the cameras flashed and snapped like a resurgent storm, but her mind was already struggling to find a way out of this catastrophe. /God, this is a disaster; thanks a lot Harmony!/ “He is. I’m not.”

The cameras were damn near exploding. The line of people shifted around them like a blizzard. /God./ Now they were going to have to do damage control. She was going to have to call Giles, let him know… /What did he even do after he heard about the LA-in-Hell thing, before?/ Buffy now regretted realizing she hadn’t paid the slightest bit of attention to what had gone on in the aftermath of that PR mess.   
  
Knowing might've given her an idea of how to manage this massive mess.

Spike’s hand on her lower back soothed, or tried to, but this was a calamity of epic proportions. There was no relaxing touch that would foot the bill right now. /Oh, fuck, this is bad…/

Unfazed, Harmony rattled on from somewhere in the near distance. “Oh, she so totally is not. She’s this ancient killer of our kind.” The ditzy vampire waved a hand, then frowned comically when both Buffy and Spike tensed still further. “Though, she’s had, like, seven million chances to dust me, and she’s never really tried it. Even when I was the big bad in town…”

Despite the devastation going on around her, Buffy had to fight back a guffaw. Spike, though, had no such compunctions, and did it for her. “Yeah. That’s what she did. Spared you so you could come be the big bad here in LA.” Giving up, he lit up the cigarette he’d been screwing with for however long, then slowly opened back up to her with what Buffy thought was undue caution. The feel of him was like careful uncertainty. 

Shaking her head, Buffy shoved a hand unceremoniously into his free one. Who the hell cared about his past sexual mistakes, in the face of this disaster? She needed him to help her figure out what the holy hell they were going to do about this huge frigging mess! 

Out of cards to play, Buffy exhaled hard. “No offense, Harmony, but I think you’re much better suited as an actress.” /If you can even be one, now that the whole damn world knows what you are! Oh my God, this is insane… And everybody in this town knows demons are real. Most of them were probably trying to convince themselves it was a terrible, no-good-bad-dream, or that they had a mass psychotic break or something…./ Didn’t she recall something about a news story being passed around about LA suffering a weird, toxic nerve-gas outbreak causing mass hallucinations? Sounded Council-like. /And now this will break and they’ll all go PTSD-wild, and…/ “Being a big bad is hard work, and you’re…” She felt like she was talking from some distant plane. Not to mention she needed to word this so the young vamp wouldn’t take it as some kind of challenge. The last thing they needed on top of everything else was a fledgling with the brain power of a chimpanzee trying even harder to prove her chops by going around trying to be a monster again now that she was semi-famous! She’d garner too much attention! “You’re too pretty to put up with brainless minions and everything. I think you’re on the right track with this show business thing…” /As long as you don’t do vampy things on-screen…/

Harmony broke out in a huge smile. “See! That’s what _I_ said! I was just telling Andy that I’m ripe for a TV contract. Like my own show, or a…”

Andy stepped in then, hand upheld. “Wait. So, I wasn’t dreaming, back last summer when I thought I was in some version of the city where there were… monsters, and…”

/Oh, crap, here we go./ “No,” Buffy informed him quietly, because with the cameras and mics trained on them and people all around, it was way too late to backtrack. The best she could hope for now was spin-control. “There are good and bad demons. And sort of neutral ones…”

“And Buffy’s type is the sheriff,” Spike interrupted bluntly. “She and her kind don’t kill the ones who aren’t hurting anybody.” And he sent a pointed glare Harmony’s way. “Especially nowadays.”

“Oh,” Harmony answered, looking surprised. “Well, that’s good, I guess, since there’s so many of ‘em now. Because, ugh.”

“Exactly,” Buffy answered. “We don’t want a war.”

“Oh. Well, uh… good. Because last time I saw Angel, he was all, ‘You gotta watch out for Slayers, Harmony; they’re everywhere now, and they could kill you at the drop of a hat if you’re not careful’.

Buffy frowned yet again, thrown as hell. Why the heck would Angel say something like that to a vampire like Harmony, who was doing it right? Unless it was just to scare her into continued good behavior? 

/Unless…/ It really did almost sound like an attempt to paint Slayers in a poor light; to pit demons and Slayers against each other. Like something Twilight-related; and was he trying, on behalf of those Twilight people, to counter their whole give-peace-a-chance movement by setting some of the demon-world against her Slayers?

Would he _do_ that? Start a war just to keep her from successfully fighting off his whole anti-Slayer thing?

It was a horrifying thought, but maybe this unexpected meeting with Harmony, and the one earlier with Z, would help to circumvent those attempts. Maybe it would even put a kink in those Twilight bastards’ endeavors to pit the demon world against her relatively peaceful girls; here on the West Coast, at least. Because right now all of LA—both human and part-demon—kind of had a collective PTSD against elder demonkind. Shooting to get them all to turn to human military-might-as-saviors was a stretch for the latter, however. /We’ll have to really bank on our notoriety here to move against this weird campaign against us. It’s like a PR war or something./

Well, unexpectedly or not, they had just been given a platform. For better or worse, they had better use it while they had it.   
  
She could start here, use it to express her altered relationship with the more peaceful demons. Use that, and her sojourn here in Hell-A last summer, to their advantage. “Live and let live,” she reiterated the sentiment, eyes hard on Harmony’s but her voice raised so the nearby paparazzi caught it. If the message got broadcast in any way, so much the better for them all. “So, you keep letting live, and no one will come at you with a stake.”

“Right. Sure. Absolutely.” Harmony was all chipper, brain-dead assurance as she strove to convince Buffy she wasn’t a threat.

Spike was frowning, though. “Well, there are a few rogues who aren’t part of Buffy’s organization. We’re not in charge of all of ‘em, but most of ‘em follow the rules.”

“Oh.” Harmony frowned cutely at that. “I didn’t think of that.” She looked around her, clearly unnerved by the very idea. “Are there… any around here?”

Buffy was no bigger a fan of the idea than Harmony was, considering that such outliers really could screw up their big, underground master plan faster than anything else. Which, speaking of things to jump on… /I need to get with Xander and Andrew about where the Slayers are who haven’t dialed into the organization. Maybe we can touch in with them while we’re in the country, then hit up the ones in Europe. Try to head off another Genevieve Savidge sitch, between us and Faith…/ “I’d have to check in with our membership people. I don’t keep track of that stuff. But we’re on it.” Behind her, Spike had straightened, frowning over the problem as he realized the possible glitch in the works.

“So, um…” Andy Dick broke into the conversation once more, sounding less nervous now than deeply interested. “If you’re not… I mean… It sounds like you all are part of some big… underground… other society, or…”

“You don’t know the half of it, mate.”

The glasses-covered eyes flickered to Harmony’s, back again to touch on Spike, then on Buffy. She thought she saw his gaze touch briefly on her neck. “Do you have to, um… kill someone to do the, uh… The blood-thing?”

Spike grunted. “No, but you have to have the hell of a lot of self-control to stop, keep it friendly.” He shot Harmony a pointed glare. “Most of the younger set don’t have it, so it’s safer for them to just stick to the canned stuff.”

Harmony made a moue at him. “I’d like to think I could handle it by now.”

“I wouldn’t try it, pet. You’re only six…”

“Which is practically ten,” she insisted with a flounce. “Didn’t you say you started to play with your food by a decade in?”

/Oh, jeez./

Spike rolled his eyes for about the fifth time tonight and muttered something about when the hell the queue was going to get moving.

The comedian had a strange expression on his face now. “Uh, so, I might be able to get us all in ahead of the line. I know one of the bouncers—or, you know, he knows me—though no telling if he’s on shift tonight. If you guys wanna give it a shot, we can go in, get away from those vultures, and then…” He looked over at Harmony, a light of challenge sparking in his eyes. “Maybe later you and me can talk about some, uh, ways to develop our friendship further.”

/Oh, man./ Buffy was all about getting this horribly bad conversation away from the hovering paparazzi. Not that the damage hadn't already been done, and then some, but it could always get worse, right? However... letting Harmony wander off alone with this guy also seemed a little worrying. Dude was looking way too hyped about this vampire thing, all the sudden. They'd have to watch them the whole time they were inside, now the guy was all interested in the vamp angle, or Harmony might end up with a little blood-whore, here. /God, if they do get away from us, I really hope she can pull it off without killing him./ She was so totally being watched, now, by, like, every freaking camera in the city. /The publicity, if she offs somebody who’s marginally famous, would be _so_ bad for us right now…/   
  
Buffy really didn’t want to have to stake the idiot, ex-classmate or no. Not right now. Not with the peace she was trying to broker.   
  
"Hey, wait!" Harmony was protesting, sounding all hurt. "If you can get us in, why have we been standing out here in line for the last…”

Andy smiled winningly at the young vampire, cutting her off. “I was distracted by your charms, and forgot where I was.”

“Oh! You’re so _sweet!”_ She whirled on Spike and Buffy, positively glowing. “Isn’t he _sweet?”_

“And _I_ think you have the makings of a star,” the comedian insisted in low tones, and drew a finger down along her collarbones, to her exposed cleavage. “You have a fresh-faced, direct charm that will captivate, I think, the way it’s captivated me…”

“Oh, Christ,” Spike muttered, and pulled in another hard drag of his half-finished cigarette. It looked like he was determined to smoke the whole thing in maybe two breaths, he was so stressed.

Buffy was right there with him. Either this dude really wanted to get laid, or really wanted to get bitten… or he was being for real, which was kind of tough to believe right now, considering the other options on the table. /Plus, you know, _Harmony_./

“So, if you will, my friends…” Waving his hand, he stepped out of the line a little to lean around the curve of bodies, waved a hand. “Oh, look, they just changed… Kurt! Hey, Kurt! Do a fella a solid?”

A hulking guy in club livery consisting of a black t-shirt with a logo on it looked up from his conversation with the people begging him for entre. He looked mostly human, but there was something about his ears that seemed a little suspect; and maybe the way his arms moved, like they had a little extra going on in his joints. “Hey, Andy!”

“Do you think my friends and I…” 

Kurt gave the appearance of someone counting in his head for a second, then, “How many friends?” he answered warily.

With a shrug, Spike and Buffy leaned out beside the comedian, joining Harmony in waving at the bouncer. 

He took one look at them and was waving fast, hand on the rope. “Man, get up here. I was supposed to let you two in like twenty minutes ago! Jeez!”

“Oh, wow,” Harmony bitched as they jogged up toward the parted rope, “what makes you two so special?”

They didn’t answer, though Spike shook the guy’s hand and, Buffy thought, slipped him a swift tip on the way in. 

He looked awed to be getting it, nodding with his jaw dropped. Buffy didn’t have time for more than a speedy smile before they were inside and enveloped by the heavy, thudding beat from within.

Thank god, they were finally away from the paparazzi. It was a massive relief.

There were humans, part-demons all around them; Buffy could feel them all, as either signatures or 'blanks' on her consciousness. The constant contrast was enough to set her flesh to buzzing, as if she were back in Sunnydale again, hanging out in Willy's or something. If, of course, Willy's were seven times its usual size. The lights were a low mixture of blue on the floor and red in the corners, a telltale sign spelling comfort for all denizens. And everyone within seemed to be getting along, like a new, unspoken treaty had been passed since Hell-A, between those in the know. /Or, at least those who choose to admit to what they remember, I guess./

For those who did, it was probably therapeutic to come to a place like this, see the slightly different faces and bodies, and enjoy some kind of reassurance that they weren’t insane. God knew she could’ve used something like that when she had been younger and people were fighting hard to convince her that there were no vampires, no demons, and that she’d been nuts to see them. /Where was Club Elite when I was fifteen?/ 

Bathing in the lights, the ambience, the ‘make love not war’ vibe of the place, Buffy returned her—ahem; Spike’s—duster to its proper owner (no way he’d risk leaving it in the hands of a canoodling Harmony and Andy Dick, in the booth they were apparently sharing), and dragged her vampire out onto the floor. Technically, they had to keep one eye on the pair, in case they had to put a halt to any incipient bloodletting. And technically, maybe, they should stay vaguely aware of their surroundings just in case there were otherwise things to watch for. But that was one level. 

On another? 

They were back in the club. Time to get their dance on.

***

 **S:**  
  
Spike rolled over in their borrowed bed in the Hyperion and groaned, hooding his eyes to curse faintly at the sliver of light showing between the pulled curtains of the south-facing window. /Christ, what a night./

His internal clock, the feel of the light out there, the smell of the air, told him it was approximately four in the afternoon. Nice not to have had to put up with an eleven AM checkout, as tended to come along with a rented room. Having the opportunity to have a bit of a lie-in almost made it worth it to come back to this sodding place.   
  
Almost.

Not that it mattered what time they left this bleeding city. They had that borrowed car with the necro-glass, cheap film though it was. It would do for getting them up the coast to see Dawn without parboiling him in the process. All in all, though, they’d do well to be getting on, he supposed. 

Turning to the nearer nightstand, he blearily fumbled for the phone lying there and keyed it ‘awake’, then thumbed off the alarm Buffy had set last night before they’d turned in, just in case. Well. there was instinct, for you. He had beaten it by upwards of seven minutes. It was three fifty-two PM. Right, then.

Shoving himself up on one elbow, he leaned over to study her somnolent form, and felt a fond smile crease his lips. His Slayer lay spread out next to him on the bed, on her belly with one knee rucked up under her and the other leg stretched out, hugging a pillow. Her knickers were askew, leaving one curve of her arse bare to his eyes. He wasn’t sure why on earth she had insisted on slipping them back on again after they’d shagged, though she’d been heard to mutter something about not trusting the sheets in this place. That they were old as hell and probably hadn’t been changed since the nineteen-twenties. 

He had to give her that much. No need to risk getting eighty-year-old dust in that glorious quim.

Christfuck, she smelled like heaven.

As he lifted away to regard her in full, she made a faint, discontented noise, as if offended that he had removed his familiar self from her backside. Smiling, he drew a finger up along the curve of her exposed buttock, bumping lightly over the hem of her light cotton knickers, then up along her spine, over the expanse of golden skin showing between them and the rucked-up halter-top. Up along the thin material to her neck… under her mussed hair, to her nape. And as she stirred, he bent to kiss her there, at the junction of shoulder and neck. “Time to be off, pet.”

“Mmm?”

“Call me the alarm,” he informed her, and favored her with another cool snog to the back of the neck.

“Didn’ go off…” she mumbled, and snugged herself deeper into her pillow.

“C’mon, then, luv.” He gave her a nudge with his nose, trailed his fingers lightly along her side.

“No.”

He chuckled lightly, in spite of himself. /Oh, I know. And I’m that sorry, pet./ His poor, weary love. And no wonder, considering the near-disaster they had had to put off last night. 

Despite the nonsense with Harm in the queue, it had started off well enough. They had settled their things into a booth together with Spike’s nit of a former and the fellow with the unfortunate name, and then left the two to their canoodling. “I love this song!” Buffy had informed him, and, handing back his duster—they both knew there was no way in hell he was leaving it in the booth alone, much less checking it into the incompetent hands of some lackey at the door—dragged him out onto the dance floor.

Dancing with Buffy was a treat, to be sure. Still rather a new one, considering, and one he absolutely treasured. She’d never have allowed it back in dear old Sunnyhell, what with one thing and the other. And it wasn’t as if he could’ve blamed her, then, considering they’d never really had the opportunity by that point even if she was of a mind to permit him such familiarity. She had, by then, more or less given up on dancing, had only gone back to that shitehole of a club out of habit more than anything; he’d thought probably in hopes of recapturing something of her old, carefree past than out of any real belief that she might feel much of anything, there. 

Honestly, by the time they had begun their tempestuous and far more personal dance, the Bronze had gone from a place of release for her to a place holding too many reminders of still more dark events, so he supposed it wasn’t all that surprising that she couldn’t unwind enough to enjoy herself there anymore. After all, the place had been the site of not a few attacks, a few would-be massacres… Not to mention she’d nearly died in the sodding place. Damn near burnt up, till he’d come in in the nick of bloody time to stop her going up like a sodding candle. 

After Sweet, it was amazing she’d ever set foot in the place again at all. Though, not to dance, of course. Let him finger her, get her off, have something resembling a release of all she held back… but not anything like what she had done back when he had first seen her, there; careless and free, arms raised, letting off steam and uncaring who might see her. 

It made it all the sweeter, now, to be with her here, in places much like. To see her let go, and know she could be like this again. To know she had exorcised so many of those old demons; could let herself go once more, move her body to the music, in his arms. Tease his cock relentlessly with the firm curve of her luscious arse, and just _be_.

He’d be a right prat if he didn’t give her his full attention, given that. Which was the reason he was damnably irritated to have to split his focus. He’d far rather pay court entirely to Buffy than keep one eye out for what hijinks his former might get up to, over there in the booth they were sharing with her and the naff-looking bloke with the unkempt blond hair and great dark sodding goggles. 

Wasn’t all that difficult to figure what Harmony saw in the nit, of course. He was famous, had connextions. That was all one needed to get her attention, of late. The bint wanted to make it in showbiz—always had—so if a person had some cachet in that department, he could have a hunchback and she’d hit on the prat. 

And she could, for all of him, but considering the attention their too-loud conversation had garnered outside in the queue, damage control was bloody well needed. All eyes would be on her and her idiot comic if they dared slip outside again. He couldn’t be arsed if Harm wanted to shag the idiot, but fuck if he could allow her to try her untutored hand at catch-and-release in some nearby alley, with the way the goddamned paparazzi seemed to follow the tosser. Some cunt with a camera might catch the whole bloody thing on film, and then where would they all be? It was one fucking thing for the whole city to be dealing with a mass hallucination about five months of hell. Entirely another for it to be confirmed on video and splashed all over the _Good Morning_ fucking _America_ tomorrow!

He didn’t even _want_ to know what that sort of publicity might do to his and Buffy’s slow, painstaking attempts to bring about a state of precarious peace between the human, Slayer, and demon worlds of late; especially if Harmony should slip, and Buffy had to decide what to…

A hot hand had slid up to his face, dragged his eyes back to center. And Buffy was gazing intently at him, green-gold irises locked on his. “It’ll be alright,” she’d breathed into his ear, well-aware that he could hear her even over the pounding pulse of the music thudding away somewhere off to his right. The place’d had a live DJ, up there on a podium, hence her leaning into his left side to communicate with him. “If she goes, I’ll feel it, and we can follow her. We can still have a good time till then.”

Spike had exhaled viciously and shook himself, determined to focus on showing his mate a good time. After all, who bloody knew when the next one might be, considering the fucking catastrophe was brewing now, after what had just happened. Might as well make the best of tonight while they had it. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s just…”

“I know,” she’d answered, and then dropped her hands to his arse to yank him insistently close once more. “But until then, it’s just us, alright?”

The feel of her, hot against him and writhing to the beat, made him groan into her hair. “Oh, hell. Bloody hell yes.” And with her hot hands on him, he was moving with her. Aside from sinking gloriously into that fucking amazing cunt of hers, there was nothing so wonderful as dancing with Buffy, now he’d gotten the chance to enjoy the novelty of it. And fuck, he wanted to do it more and more often, now they’d added it into their repertoire.

Buffy had folded herself into him as some nameless, featureless pop dance song rolled around them, full of synths and overwrought vocals. _‘Stood the test of time’,_ some light-voiced prat wailed, _‘though I treated you rough, you were always kind. I let my head rule my heart, now I’m feeling so lonely…’_ Buffy had tightened her arms around him, as if to keep him there; as if she’d found something in the music worth listening to. Ah, well; she’d always considered this modern shite worth a go. Couldn’t blame her, he supposed. It was of her generation, and that _. ‘Breathe,’_ the bloke warbled on _. ‘And I breathe… hollow without you, I can’t live without you…’_

Exasperated by the tunes--bloody club music had been like pap, last few decades--Spike ignored the poncy lyrics to focus instead on the input of his senses: the driving, repetitive pulsing of the beat; the sure clock of her breath against his shoulder; the scent of her, like home and life and sex and wonder all in one; the flavor of her always there, on the tip of his tongue and the back of his throat, lingering on the aromas of her because he could all but taste her just breathing her in. The feel of her body pressed to his, aligned to him in every way as they moved like one being. They always had moved so bloody well together; to the point where every dance, of every kind, had been instinctive, perfect, shining, innate, and so bleeding authentic it took his breath away. 

Snugging her closer, if possible, by arse and shoulder, he'd lowered his face to the side of hers, dipped his nose to the place where his own scent lay trapped beneath her skin; where his bite lay, closed his eyes, and lost himself briefly in the knowledge that whatever the fuck else was going on out there, they could handle it. That no matter what happened, they were, and always would be, one.

It had gone on like this for so long he’d lost count of the songs; perfection and wonder, and Christ, he could dance with her forever. Didn’t matter how. /I love you so fucking much, Buffy. Mine, yours, oh bleedin’ God, don’t know how I ever lived without you…/

When her head jerked up out of nowhere, it startled him no end. Startled him so bloody much he’d growled reflexively as her head whipped around sharp, her body freezing to a rigid thing in his arms. “Crap. She’s gone.”

“Fuck.” Freezing along with her, Spike had spun them about to squint through the dim light and the irritating shafts of brightness glaring all round them, sent in every direction by the disco ball overhead—bloody stupid things, disco balls—focusing in on their booth. “Shit. Yeah. They’ve gone.”

Disentangling herself from his embrace, Buffy had bent automatically, as if dipping into her boot for a stake, then cursed in a way he’d seldom heard from her. “Why the hell aren’t I armed?”

Seizing her elbow, Spike had made for a rear door he could see through the noxious fake smoke spewing out from one of those godawful fog machines this sort of place favored. “Because we’re not used to being in the game anymore. C’mon. We’ll find something in the alley if we need it.”

“Dammit!” She’d gone along with him, growling under her breath well enough to impress even him as they waded through the gyrating crowds. Upon attaining the back door, they let themselves out into the night, ignoring the blaring ‘Emergency Exit Only’ sign in bright, if flickering, neon. The instant they were out Spike dragged in a deep inhale of the outside air, seeking his former’s scent, and… “Yeah. She’s out here somewhere, with the ponce…” Along with stale fags, piss, rubbish, rotten food, possibly some unwashed human; the old standbys of a back-alley in any city. 

Buffy had led the way round a nearby dumpster, toward the mouth of the alley, where fresher air lay. She’d be right, of course. Vamps across the board would have to fight out a battle between the seedy but concealing, friendly darkness deeper in the alley, and the less fragrant environs of its mouth, where the scents of the human meal would be more likely to drown out the disgusting bouquet of the rest of the near vicinity. 

And there they’d been; only about five bloody feet from the entrance, because Harm was young, still, and thus not all that well-versed in the secrecy befitting one of their kind. She was just bloody well begging for the assignation to be caught on sodding tape, wasn’t she? /Fuck./

They'd hustled to the scene of the crime, hoping to beat her to it; at least to the point where there’d be no turning back. Spike somehow rather doubted his ditzy former had the restraint to hold back when it came to brass tacks. 

She’d already begun, in any case. The human bellend she’d been courting all night was leaning back, hands clawing at the filthy bricks of the alley wall in ecstasy, moaning and pumping his hips. “Oh… _God_ ,” he’d groaned.

“You like that, baby?” Harm muttered into his neck. 

Fuck, she’d be making a sodding mess of things, babbling to him while in the midst of the business. /Don’t talk with your mouth full, Harm, for fucksake!/

“Oh, _Jesus_ ,” the prat moaned again, sounding like he was about to go off like a fountain.

And then his heartbeat bobbled once…

/Shit./ _“Harm!”_ Spike roared, a commanding warning.

Harm lifted away from the ponce’s throat, her chin all over blood and staring in shock. She hadn’t heard or smelt them approaching at all, so wrapped up was she in the business. “Spike?”

/Christ, fledges are messy fucking eaters! Was I ever so sodding disgusting about it?/ “You’ve got to learn when to fucking stop, Harm, for fucksake!”

“Huh?”

Beside him, Buffy was just as anxious, if not moreso. “Harmony! Close him up before he freaking bleeds out!”

“Oh!” Blinking back at the wounds on the now-sagging man—thank Christ she’d apparently gone for the vein and not the artery—she bent and did him up with a lick that barely aided with the disastrous mess she’d made of the poor sod. “How was that, lover?” she cooed at him.

“Oh, wow…” the nit moaned, sounding weak as hell. “I’m so… lightheaded, but oh… my… _God_ …”

Buffy'd groaned and rubbed a hand over her face. “Oh, for God’s sake.” She shot Spike a hopeful glance. “Do we need to get him to the hospital?” 

Spike had listened closely, frowning as he assessed. “I think he’ll do, so long as we get the idiot fed. He’ll be weak as a kitten for a day or so, though. And…”

He never got the chance to finish, as out of nowhere, bright, flashing lights descended on their position, like an attack of localized lightning. “Mr. Dick! What just happened here?” “Mr. Dick! Did you really just get bit by a _vampire?_ ” “Andy! Was this a voluntary act?” “Miss, what’s your name?” “Are you really a vampire, or is it an affectation?” 

“Oh, God,” Buffy’d whispered, and dropped her hand into Spike’s, sagging abruptly and completely into his side. 

All he could think, as he’d joined her in feeling aghast, was, ‘Oh, bloody hell’. 

There Harm stood, demon-face all over blood and gaping for the cameras, actually primping her fucking hair as she held her weakened comedian-cum-date-cum-donor up by one shoulder and they both blinked into the flares of at least a dozen paparazzi with their microphones thrust into their faces. The famous bloke was also all over blood, from neck to shoulder, and looking dazed, and fuck. This was a shitshow waiting to happen.

/No turning back now, I guess./

Every fucking vampire in the modern goddamned world was about to become a celebrity, whether they liked it or not.

/Fuck./

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


(Quote by Aldous Huxley)

Song quoted is "Breathe" by Erasure; big dance hit that year.  
  
Yeah, so... according to comics canon, vamps get outed right about this period, by Harmony and RL comic Andy Dick, and the former ends up making Slayers look really bad, what with one thing and the other... but since our kids were there to do damage control in my version, things will be a bit better.   
  
I insist.  
  
(Also, as a side-note, I'm a big fan of Buffy finding out about the thing with Harmony in S5 of AtS and not having a big meltdown about it, because I guess I'm kind of over it being a big damn deal, and by this point in their relationship, I just don't think it would be.)

Also also, as some of you might know, comedian Andy Dick is a real person. But this wasn't my fault, the whole 'don't use real people in your story', since the comics people were the ones who did it first, so now it's comics canon. I'm not sure how they got away with it (painting a real guy as somebody who is really getting into getting bit by a vampire), but since it's comics canon I had to roll with it. Maybe they got his permission? It makes me wonder if he's friends with some of the guys who wrote the things. I wonder if ppl realize that when they do things like this (give permission for their names to be used), they're also giving permission to eventually be used in fanfiction.

LOL. Probably not.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright; time to deal with the aftermath of The Great Reveal.
> 
> I feel like we didn't get much from Our Heroes, emotionally-speaking, on how it would feel to have their hidden world and secret identities just thrown out into the meat-grinder of public life and public opinion like that, in the comics. But then, by that point in those things they were too busy dealing with everything falling apart, because the Twilight thing was really ramping up into a war. Also, comics really have to work hard to get into people's inner emotional lives, and I feel like some do it better than others. IMO it really depends on the writing. Some focus better on action. 
> 
> Anyhoo. I really wanted to consider how that would FEEL, you know? The sheer, belly-deep terror of it, the uncertainty of facing public opinion when your secret life is exposed, when you might be viewed as a monster... when a whole world that's been hidden from 'reality' is exposed all of a sudden. It'd be very vulnerable-feeling, if freeing for some... I'd think very scary. You just don't know how people are going to react. And the timing, in the wider scheme of things, is dangerous in this story.

“Just when I think I have learned the way to live, life changes.” 

* * *

Things didn’t feel all that better now, from the perspective of the morning after. He sure the hell didn’t want to risk turning on the sodding telly to see what the news shows had to say on the matter. 

Giving in to the exigencies of the day, Buffy sighed and rose to a sitting position on the mattress, sheet crumpled round her waist and looking adorably mussed. “Jeez.” She scrubbed a hand over her face, rubbed one eye in a way that made her look young and wildly vulnerable, and groaned. “I guess I should follow up with Giles…” She closed her eyes again, briefly, and oh, Christ, he could feel the way her stomach flipped over, how hard she was working to contain the panic rising like a fluttering thing inside her being. Fair enough, considering he had to work hard not to feel quite the same bloody way. “God, I really just don’t want to talk to him; especially about this.”

He rubbed a soothing hand over her arm, hating this, hating all of it. Wished like hell there was more he could do to help her, but fuck if he wasn't having to spend much of his time fighting a rising tide of panic in his own right. Keeping all that locked away from her so she could manage was taking most of his sodding concentration.

She had, of course, informed Red and the Boy about the burgeoning disaster the evening prior, considering the potential PR nightmare of it. He didn’t blame her for putting off talking to Watcher about the mess, considering. But the old ponce was certainly the right one to reach out and coordinate things globally, what with his connections with the remains of the global Council’s network and that. “Times like this, I miss Percy,” Spike put in, and heard the regret he felt fill his voice. He would just feel better about the whole bleeding thing if he had Wes about to help manage the business. The bloke had been, if nothing else, a steady sort.

Buffy shot a bleary glance at him, then nodded and looked away again. “Yeah. I never thought I’d ever feel more comfortable with Wesley than Giles, but…”

/Yeah, well, spend enough time with someone in hell… Even if they are a sodding ghost./ Spike sometimes missed Oxford a whole bloody lot, himself.

Reaching down near the bedside to rummage in the grip they’d brought along, he poked around a bit, and came up, by feel, with Buffy’s phone, since the one on the nightstand was his and wouldn’t come equipped with the number she needed. “You want me to do it, pet?”

Buffy exhaled hard and shook her head, face set. “No. It’s not your job. It’s mine. I’m grown up enough to face him…”

“That’s the spirit…”

Taking the mobile from him, she gave him a little shove in the chest. He obliged automatically, scooting toward the head of the bed to lean up against the wall. She promptly turned her body to fit herself between his legs, set her back against his chest, and leaned her head back against his shoulder. He promptly wrapped his arms around her in an automatic bid to steady her as much as he could against the assault the wider world was making against their small, hidden pocket of reality. “It’s, what? Afternoon there too, right?” she queried as she dialed.

Spike did some quick calculations in his head, nodded uncertainly. “It’s tomorrow, whatever the hour. Three, four, five… somewhere in there. Bloody Daylight Savings…”

Buffy pulled a face he could feel. They hadn’t had to deal with that little wrinkle, living in Spain. 

With her head and the phone so close to his, he could hear every bit of the conversation from the moment the old geezer answered the call. ‘Yes, Buffy? To what do I owe…’

“We have a serious problem,” Buffy put in, swift and to the point. “We’re in LA. We were dropping Drusilla off in a demon mental hospital over in Primm, and we decided to stop in and check in with Angel, to see if we could find out if he’s really doing what we think he is. Which, by the way,” she went on grimly, “according to Connor and Illyria, it really sounds like he is, if you want to know.” Her hard tones remained clipped as she skipped ahead. “After we spoke to a few local demon-leaders, we went to a club to dance, and ran into Harmony. She was talking to a local celebrity who had a bunch of paparazzi on him. She said the v-word loud enough for it to get on camera, and the celebrity guy must’ve been in the city during our little trip to hell, because he got all excited… and, long story short, by the end of the night he volunteered to be her donor for the evening. And the paparazzi caught it on camera.”

‘Oh, good Lord… I thought when the girls told me, this morning, that it had to be…’ Rupert’s voice went from stunned to taut. ‘Buffy, how could you allow…’

Buffy rolled her eyes and spoke up once more before Spike could become too enraged over the man’s frustrating tendency to lay every single supernatural event in the bleeding universe at his former charge’s door. “Well, you know, we tried to stop it from happening, but it was kind of tough to keep an eye on her in a club full of hundreds of people. And considering there were upwards of twenty cameras on this guy…” Buffy sighed heavily. “I’m trying to broker peace right now, Giles. I’m not going to stake a vampire who’s been living on bagged blood, before they’ve done anything wrong, just to try to stop something bad from maybe happening in the future. It would discourage any other vampires from bothering to try to walk the straight and narrow, for one thing.” Her voice had gone so bloody tight. “Harmony’s been on the wagon. I should _encourage_ that!”

‘Buffy…’

“And besides,” his girl insisted, breaking back in before her former Watcher could pick up any self-righteous steam, “according to the local demon-leader, Z, someone’s been trying to convince all the LA demons that Slayers are throwing in with the military against them.” Her voice went stark, bleak. “Someone’s trying to start a civil war in the demon world, Giles. One guess why.” 

/Yeah, let the old fool chew over that for a bit. Maybe he’ll realize that what we’re doing, what his girl’s doing, is actually working. That it’s worrying the bastards trying to off his chits; scaring ‘em enough they’re trying to do the same sort of psy-ops—isn’t that the word?—to counter her plan. They’re bloody dangerous, Watcher! Get it through your thick skull!/

“I’m trying to stop that from happening,” Buffy finished, grim and implacable. “The problem being, now the entire city’s going to get it reinforced for them, that their mass hallucination or whatever of last summer, of being stuck in a hell-dimension? It was real. Demons are real, some are bad, some are good… I thought you might want to know so you could capitalize on it, jump in with some PR work of your own. And that I’ll be doing the same, before anyone can convince everyone that Slayers are the actual worst, like these Twilight guys seem to be trying to do.”

/Yeah. Like she’s been doing the whole bloody time, Rupert, without your sodding help, while you’ve been trying the whole damned time to keep the thing underground, to the point a load of the chits are being lost round the edges./

“I figure this is our shot to gain public support, before the Twilight movement or whatever they’re called can paint us as bad guys, to both the human world and the demon world. Since, luckily, I happened to be in Hell-A with everyone there, and to be kind of a visible person, since I was Champion to one of the most heroic Demon Lords in the place. I figure we can capitalize on that, since we saved a lot of people down there from the actual bad demons…”

‘Buffy, this is…’

_“Real,_ now,” Buffy interrupted the old man staunchly. “It’s not going away, so you’re gonna have to deal. We have an opportunity here, since we have to come out anyway. It’s a make-or-break; so don’t break it.” Her voice went firm, no punches pulled. “Make it good, Giles. I believe in you.”

The shaky inhale on the other end of the line was audible to Spike, as the old man drew himself up. He swore he could hear the faint clink of spectacles being retrieved and reset, then, ‘Right. Thank you for the warning, Buffy. I’ll see to it.’

Buffy didn’t relax as yet. “I’ve already told Wil and Xander and Faith about it, by the way, so they’re ready to jump in.” It wasn’t information so much as warning. Rupert would know by now that she had successfully recruited those three to her point of view. It was a subtle indication that if he didn’t follow her methods in this instance, the rest would, and he would end in looking quite ridiculous to his Slayers in comparison, if not rather a rogue. 

/Oh, my love, you’ve become quite the poker player of late, haven’t you?/ He reckoned she could take on the best by now. 

Hell; did she lose to him so often anymore simply because she enjoyed getting naked in his company? What a thought.

‘I’ll, ah, coordinate with them,’ the old Watcher answered finally, sounding not a little uncomfortable.

“Great.” Short, terse, to-the-point. So much had been lost, there. Regret filled Spike, on his mate’s behalf. 

‘Thank you, Buffy, for ringing me to keep me in the loop, as it were…’

“Of course. You need to know. Alright; I have to hang up and get packed. We’re heading north today to go see Dawn.”

‘Oh, yes, of course you would want to… Ah, I’ll keep the Headquarters informed of my progress.’

“Cool.” Buffy hesitated. Spike could feel her awkwardness. “Bye, Giles.” And she rang off before it could get any more strained between herself and the man she had called father.

Bloody hell, that needed seeing to, someday or other. 

Buffy remained still for a bit, after closing the phone, eyes distant. Spike contented himself with massaging her shoulders, laying his cool palms to the back of her neck to soothe her and the like—anything, to feel as if he were helping in the slightest, Christ!—till she came back to the present enough to speak. To his surprise, though, when she did so, it was not to vent about the extrangement with the old man, nor to troubleshoot the business with their world having been outed to the wider public. “I had a Slayer dream last night, Spike.”

He faltered briefly in his massage before taking it up again, fighting for equanimity. /Hell./ She hadn’t had one of the bloody things in months. Not since just before they’d had their bitty visit from that slag Amy, and ended up in Twilight’s hidden facility back in Sunnyhell. /This can’t be fucking good./ “Yeah?" Fighting to keep his voice neutral, his emotions in check, he stroked down along her trapezius muscles. "Wanna walk me through it?”

Nodding, she curled onto her side against him, cuddled her hands together beneath her chin, and settled in for the recounting. As had become the standard for them when she had a Slayer dream, he joined her for the ride, stroking her hair repetitively to help keep her calm and focused and within her body—within the present moment—while she drilled her mind’s eye in on the events that had paraded past her sleeping gaze. “I was in the crater,” she informed him softly, her voice distant as she sank down into the depths of remembered vision. “Back in the ruins of that old chapel or whatever, down there; just like it was when I…” She shook her head a little, a very physical denial. Her voice went stark, bleak. “The Master was there.”

Spike frowned, startled. That was curious. “Nest was there?”

He had long since informed her as to the family relationships involved, of course, and the name his ultimate grandsire had taken on in his final human life. “Yeah. Which is weird, because I haven’t dreamed of him in forever. I definitely never thought I’d see that place again, since it seems like the hellmouth sort of had a revolving door of… faces or whatever. Rooms? Depending on who was opening it up, and what key or spell or whatever they used. I figured that one got locked up tight when I dusted his ass.” Her voice went dry. “Not to mention that it seemed like the entire thing kind of packed up shop when you blasted it into a crater with your stunning light show.” And one hand disengaged from under her chin to slide down and caress his belly in appreciation.

It was gratifying to be honored for one’s service. “Yeah, well… Maybe even a pit in the ground can rumble here and there, being as it’s technically a cosmic g-spot between dimensions…” 

She made a faint sound, caught somewhere between amused and uncomfortable, and he ran a soothing palm down over her bare shoulder. Kissed the top of her head, gave her a verbal nudge. “Did the old git say anything?”

Buffy puffed out an annoyed breath. “Yeah. He said I couldn’t have the seed, whatever the hell that means.”

“Huh.” She was right. That one was a puzzler. “Was anyone else about, or d’ya think it was just some sort of odd retread of your first death, or…”

From his vantage, he could just see the curve of her cheek, the edge of one eyebrow. He thought she’d bitten her lower lip, and Christ, she could look young, sometimes, still, when she was uncertain. “No. This felt… not-then. It felt… in-the-future. I think you were around somewhere, and maybe Faith. And magicks were being used, somewhere close. Familiar ones, so maybe Wil was around?” She held her breath for a moment, her breast swelling beneath his banding arm, then let it explode out abruptly, exasperated. “I think even Angel was there, but for some reason I was really, _really_ mad at him, or at least super-frustrated or something…”

Spike fought not to chuckle. “Well, that sounds about par for the course, yeah?” /Especially considering all this Twilight shite./ His chuckles petered out into the grim realization that, hell. She might actually have to stake his grandsire again, this time around. Which would not only destroy her, no doubt, considering how she’d reacted watching him die in Hell-A, but however he acted about the ponce, he’d have a few bad days over it himself, whether he wanted to admit to it or no.

He apparently hadn’t cut off laughing soon enough. She socked him lightly in the shoulder. 

He supposed he’d deserved that. “Anything else?” he prodded, sober now.

Buffy shifted slightly in his arms, the uncertainty in her growing to a pitch that made him antsy in his turn, building in his solar plexus like a rising tide of anxiety. “I was standing out at the edge of the crater, in the sun. You were all behind me, under a sort of tarp-thing, like a command center. There was an army across from us, with that guy… You know, the one I told you I saw landing in the helicopter, when Faith and I faced down Genevieve Savidge? Mr. Dark-Leather-and-Mask, like freaking Zorro?”

He made a cautious sort of sound, wondering where this was going.

Buffy hesitated, then sighed heavily and relaxed against him. “Dammit, by the feel of him…” She shook her head again, as if she were trying to cast something away from herself. “I think he’s Angel.”

Spike did guffaw at that. “Oh, fuck, d'you think so?” At her continued silence he groaned and let his head fall back against the aging wallpaper, with a low _thunk_. “Bloody hell. I knew he was a bleedin’ showboat, but this takes the sodding cake.”

“Spike, what if…”

Dragging his head back up, Spike tightened his arms around her and recommenced his slow, comforting caresses. “It’ll be what it is, pet. Let’s just wait and see, yeah?”

She nodded, closing her eyes against his throat for a moment, so that he could feel her lashes brushing his adam's apple. The butterflies in her belly were, at this point, about the size of sodding partridges, from what he could feel of her. /Fuck, oh Love…/

After a moment, she set herself, inhaled deep and deliberate of his scent in the way she had taken to doing to calm herself, before quietly adding, “There was more.”

“Oh, yeah?” he nudged, gentle as you please. In a way, getting all the juice out of her bloody barmy Slayer dreams was rather like guiding Dru through her conversations with the sodding pixies. One had to softly prod, guiding the seer to grasp for which thing to focus on, and help her to seek her road through the often-obscure imagery and metaphors till she found her way to the meat of the thing. To the central message. Once you did that, you could most times discover the meaning of the tangential stuff hovering round that core bit of information. /Why the bloody hell the sodding Powers can’t send messages more straightforward than this sort of maddening shite…/

But They didn’t, instead relying on metaphor and symbolism so thick you needed a knife to cut through it. Which meant Buffy relied on him these days; to help her parse the nonsense from the portents, the meat from the gristle, the puppets from their shadows on the wall, throwing up monsters in her mind. Considering he’d been well-trained in doing so, it was meet he use the long-left-dusty skill for some-bloody-thing. Thus it was his honor to aid her in it, so that she was no longer alone in wresting meaning from the madness that swirled round in her mind when the fucking Powers decided to take a hand. “Tell me.”

She went still, did the bit where she stared off again, at the drapes and yet not, and spoke once more in that odd, inflectionless way she had when she was relating one of her dreams. “I went down, away from the tent or whatever it was; alone. Down to the edge of the crater. There was this shady area where there was some kind of overhang.” She hesitated, then… “Drusilla was there, hiding only a few hundred feet from where we were set up…”

Spike gave a start. That had been unexpected.

“I leaned over, took her hands… there was this big flash of light… and then she _hugged_ me and sort of danced out into the sun…”

“Oh, Christ…” He bloody well hadn’t expected that. /Oh, Dru. You’re gonna dust, during all this, are you? Following your sodding Daddy, is it?/

Her hand tightened on his bicep, accurately reading his pain. “She didn’t go up in flames.”

Spike leaned away from her to stare. “What the bloody hell?”

“I know. And then she kissed me on the cheek…”

/The fuck?/

“…Said something about ‘giving Daddy what he deserved’, and straight-up disappeared.”

Alright, now he was at a serious fucking loss. /What the hell?/

“And then you were there, standing in the sun next to me, and you weren’t burning up either, and you said, “I’ll miss her, but at least she’s happy now. She’s never been.” And you held my hand, and looked right up into the sun, and smiled and said, “Never burn up in your light anymore, Slayer.”

Spike frowned at that, more than a little concerned. He hesitated, but hell if he didn’t need to know. “Did I… still feel like a vamp?”

Buffy sat up at that, turning to stare him directly in the eyes. “Yes,” she told him, firmly and without the slightest doubt in her voice.

/Oh. Well, then…/ Relief flooded him. At one point, back when he’d thought it was the thing she’d needed from him for them to be, he’d wanted the Shanshu, but now he very badly did not. For all it was difficult and a sometimes-precarious thing, getting along as they were, as vampire-and-Slayer, to lose his supernatural self now they knew she would live on—to, in effect, become human and desert her instead of the other way about—was anathema. 

No. He definitely no longer wanted that particular prize. “Right, then,” he answered, and lifted his hand to stroke her cheek. “Well, that’s odd.”

“Yeah,” she whispered, and shrugged, subsiding once more to his chest. “I figure it’s gotta be some kind of weird metaphor, since Drusilla did it too.” Shaking her head, she leaned back to cradle herself in the crook of his shoulder.

He frowned in his turn, a recollection striking him broadside. “Remember what she said?”

Buffy stilled. “Dru?”

“Yeah.” He cast his mind back, to recall the exact words. After over a hundred years of training, he’d gotten pretty damned good at recording those visions of hers word-for-sodding-word. _“‘I could go to Daddy,’”_ he repeated after a moment’s thought. _“‘Be the thing he thinks he wants, let it use me. Burn me all up in the sun, though. Little Drusilla; dust in his hands…”_

“Huh,” Buffy murmured, sounding stricken. “Well… she didn’t get burned up in _my_ vision.”

“Yeah,” Spike muttered. “Which makes me wonder if it’s a metaphor at all.”

“Huh,” Buffy answered again. “Well… wow.”

“Yeah.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, neither willing to remotely consider what the bloody hell any of that implied. If the two visions, congruently, indicated something concrete involving vampires walking untouched in sunlight, then that was a whole other sodding ball of wax.

After a moment, and without further discussion, he and his Slayer both put it away. It was too much to be going on with for the nonce. “Was that all of it?” he asked, feeling oddly tentative.

He heard the frown in her voice as she considered. “No,” she answered finally, as if surprised that she’d forgotten a detail or two. “I think… we went to some city…” A short hesitation. “I dunno. Maybe Cleveland, or Chicago. One of the other cells was there, or at least I think so, because I was surrounded by baby Slayers. Anyway, it didn’t feel as ‘in-the-future’ as all that Sunnydale stuff. It’s almost like this whole dream was walking backward in time; like it was showing me a final showdown, and then a bunch of stuff leading up to it, step-by-step?” She shivered a bit, necessitating his wrapping his arms round her waist and pulling her close up against him to bolster her as she looked deeper into the quagmire of her vision. “I was… joining hands with Wil? To look into a portal… or a mirror, or something? There was a Slayer causing some kind of major malfunction somewhere. Rona and Robin were arguing with me and Faith about it, but I couldn’t hear any words. It was like the radio was turned off and everyone was lip-synching to nothing…” 

She sighed heavily, made a face he could feel. The frustration rolled off of her in waves. “I’m not getting enough on that part, and I feel like that’s the most important part. I could see, or maybe feel, the masked guy—Angel or not,” she bit off then, caustically, “hovering behind it all, and I knew that if I didn’t figure that part out, the whole thing we’re building—the peace accord, this thing with Harmony exposing us; all of it!—is gonna fall apart. But I can’t see it because it’s…”

Spike stroked the backs of her arms. _Here;_ here was his job. “Alright, let’s see if we can clear it up, then. You said Wood and the chit were fighting…”

Buffy nodded against his chest. “Yeah. About what to do to stop this…” A pause, as if to consider her words. “A rogue Slayer, I think? Or…” Doubt entered her voice, then. “Maybe two different ones, in two different places?”

Spike inhaled sharply as a thought occurred to him. “Well, harnessing the distrust of rogue Slayers to get them to do things to throw off our peace would definitely help these Twilight buggers, yeah?”

“Oh.” Buffy halted briefly, arrested. “Oh, crap. We need to get Andrew and Xander back on that part of the PR hunt, ASAP.” 

“Yeah. For starters.” Spike was beginning to feel more than a little grim, himself. /One. It’ll only take one foul-up or poor interaction or unjust slay, caught on camera, now, for the whole bloody thing to go down the loo. It won’t matter to the hoi-polloi that there are Slayers who aren’t part of the Organization. It’ll all look like a lie to the demons, and then when these military bastards strike, we’ll be a house divided, and all our hard work come to naught./ “We need to get on this, Love. Now, before something jumps off to derail the whole bloody thing.” It definitely explained why her vision was telling her this came first; a necessary step to keeping the whole sodding thing from going to pot. 

“Yeah,” Buffy breathed, then exhaled hard in frustration. “Dammit; it looks like we’re not going home anytime soon, doesn’t it?” Reluctance filled her tones.

“Active-duty again, pet,” he agreed, feeling equally regretful, and drew two reluctant fingers down along her shoulder, over the crest of her deltoid, down along her upper arm. /Fucking hell. I’ve so loved having you all to myself, my love. More than you’ll ever know. Don’t want to give you back; especially since I know you don’t want it either. But if that’s how it must be… I’ll do it, Buffy. Be right there by your side, to hold you up when it becomes too heavy for you to bear. Hold you up, so you can hold up the world./ It was his creed. It was everything he knew.

“Well, crap,” she murmured, regret and unwillingness the better part of her tones and the feel of her.

He tightened his arms around her. “Guess it wasn’t by chance we ran into Harm last night.” /Christ. These PTB are manipulative bastards, but They bloody well have good timing./

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed, and, to his surprise, turned to sock him again, on the upper arm. “Speaking of, warn a girl next time about the whole ‘brief re-affair’ thing, so it’s not an out-of-nowhere deal?”

Staggered, Spike nearly choked. /Oh, hell. _Now_ , we’re gonna do this?/ “Christ, Buffy, as if it’s even _relevant_ …”

“Still doesn’t mean I was ready to have it sprung on me out of nowhere like that…”

Sighing, he caught her arm and dragged her back against him. “I didn’t think it signified enough to bother bringing it up.” He pulled a face he knew she’d feel, as if he’d tasted something disagreeable. “Honestly, I’d more or less forgotten it happened.”  
  
“Well,” she allowed after a mo’, “I like to hear that it was forgettable. God,” she said then, switching tacks like a sailboat in a high wind, “do you think we’ll still have time to go see Dawn? She’ll kill us with her voice if we don’t. I mean, I don’t wanna take the risk of ruining this whole thing by getting there late, you know? But I really wanna see her before we head east…”

Spike kissed the back of her golden head. “Let’s reserve our tickets to Cleveland by phone, now, but do it leaving from San Francisco. That way we can see her, meet this bloke she’s dating, else we’ll never hear the end of it, then hop on the flight from there to see to the business.”

Buffy relaxed abruptly to snuggle back into his arms. “You have such good ideas.” She kissed his chest in passing, somewhere in the general vicinity of his unbeating heart. “It makes you handy to keep around, even if you do blindside me sometimes.” Sliding her hands up his arm, she smiled in a way that send warm, fuzzy relaxation through his entire being, sparking with tendrils of heated memory. “D’ya think we have time for another quick thing with the mirror, before we go? Says the girl who’s completely rebelling against all this sudden ‘call to action’ crap?”

Spike grinned, remembering last night, and their adventures with the aging Queen Anne mirror across from the bed. Its presence had encouraged them to the point where they’d broken a few springs in the equally-aging mattress. However, since the whole bloody hotel was a protesting ruin waiting to happen, and as Angel was hell and gone from the place and couldn’t fucking protest, he couldn’t be arsed if they disported themselves six ways to Sunday in the familiar building before they departed. “Maybe we should bring the thing with us,” he suggested, and slid a caressing hand up along her thigh to cup her bum. 

Buffy smirked. He could hear it in her voice. “Doubt we could fit it in baggage claim. But if you really liked it so much, I’m sure we can find one in Spain…”

Rising abruptly so that she toppled unceremoniously from his lap and ended up on her knees, he loomed behind her, nipped at her back. “You drive me mad, woman.”

She turned her head round to grin challengingly at him. “I know.”

She was very clearly trying not to think. To put off their return to public life, and he didn’t bloody well blame her, since he was very much of the same mind. 

Not thinking was, he reckoned, damn well the way to go, right now. It kept off the roaring terror for a bit. 

As he stripped away her knickers, he reckoned he’d dust happy, to have a woman like this one, whatever else happened in the world outside.

***

It was about a seven hour drive up to Berkeley from downtown LA, counting the stops to be made for Buffy’s comfort, and to fetch her snacks and the like; and one for supper, though in their case it was more of a late lunch, with him joining in to keep up appearances (this being far more necessary now, what with everything, than it had been yesterday). He was taken care of himself, as he'd had a quick nip from a demon-owned establishment before leaving LA, so as to avoid the general pandemonium. No reason to reveal his vamp-ness to the masses, at the current moment, by haunting a hospital or the like.   
  
That, and for his part he'd far rather remain, as Buffy had put it, 'on the down-low', for the nonce. The last thing he needed was to become a celebrity, like his idiot of a former, merely for seeking sodding sustenance! /Good enough reason to avoid seeking out donors, right now, even if they might come in droves, all excited and the like, and start throwing themselves at any vamp within a twenty mile radius, like bleedin' idiots, and is there going to be a plague of fools falling dead about every city, mysteriously drained?/   
  
/Serve the nits right if there were/ he figured, snorting darkly to himself. Any road, he'd rather not, thank you very much, even if it might cost them a bit of dosh in the short run to have him go back to paying for blood. Was just less fucking stressful to buy the stuff, than to face dealing with all the politics of humans right now. /Course, if I was still bein' my old, evil self... Hell, this would be a party and a half./

/Christ, human hangers-on are in so much bloody danger right now./ 

The Slayers were going to have to work overtime to keep this thing in check, while still somehow managing to look good, and not like merciless sodding murderers of the poor, defenceless fairytale creatures, while they were about it; and what a ridiculous mess this was.

In light of all that, Buffy began the rather lengthy trip by making about a dozen calls on her bitty phone before they headed up out of the Valley and into the West Hills. She managed quite a lot of serious business before she lost signal for a bit on the long stretch of I-5 heading into nowhere, which was a good bloody thing, since she’d not see signal again till around Bakersfield.   
  
It was awe-inspiring, watching her turn the general on again with such ease, despite her reluctance, the long period spent out of the loop. Though, to be fair, he rather thought doing so was the one thing keeping his Slayer from flying off the bloody handle, she was so sodding anxious over all this mess. 

He did his best to aid her in that endeavor, helpless though he felt in doing so, by keeping his own whirling anxieties under wraps, so that they would not contribute overmuch to hers. Kept a hand on her every second, touched her as often as possible, to keep her grounded in the moment, so she wouldn’t get lost in the morass. 

Christ, she was a vibrating mess. Not that he was all that much better off.

The first person she rang was Dawn, of course, to let their Bit know they were en route. After the shrieking subsided and she’d agreed on their behalf to a very late supper with Tim, the Ano-Movic lad the Niblet was dating, Buffy ended the call, sighed at the mobile in her lap, then lifted it again and went into hyper-professional mode. “Hey, Wil. So, we’ve been thinking. Yeah. Yeah, well, because of all that… Exactly. It’s gonna blow up big, and given… Uhuh. We were thinking maybe we should fly into Cleveland… Well, the thing is, last night I had a Slayer dream… Yeah, it was a doozy. Three parts, and they all hinged on us getting a handle on the rogue Slayers, the ones we don’t have under the umbrella. Something about a couple who are about to go off… Yeah, yeah I’ll talk to Xander…”

She switched ears and went on briskly the minute Red handed the phone off to the Boy. “Hey, Xan. Could you hit up Andrew and run down a list of Slayers who haven’t joined up, and see if we can touch in with ‘em again? We can’t afford… Yeah, _especially_ after last night. No, right away. If any one of ‘em goes off half-cocked and stakes someone for anything less than straight-up murder… Not that I feel like that term really applies, when we’re talking about… No, _I’m_ serious. We have to be careful right now. Not that I don't think there won't be a lot of... Well, yeah, obviously there'll be a lot of extraneous killings, but most of them'll be mistakes, or young vamps who can't control themselves, because a lot of people are gonna be offering themselves up... No, I'm _not_ kidding, and yeah, when that happens, we'll have to go into Slayer mode, obviously, but we can't let anyone dust any vamps who _haven't_ hurt anyone. No, I'm being serious. Everything hinges on this deal, and my dream last night said… No, I’m _not_ messing with you, Xan, we need to jump on this, or it all goes down the toilet. Yeah, yeah I’ll call Andrew myself, right after I hang up with you, get his poll… Yeah, okay, call me back. Bye.”

Shaking her head, she lowered the phone once more, frowned at it. 

“They digging their heels in, is it?”

Buffy didn’t even bother to glance his way. “Well, you know. We never wanted to have to force anyone to join up. And maybe there’ll still be a way around that, but we definitely need to know what they’re all up to now. Which seems really invasive, but...”

He reckoned he understood where she was coming from. They both treasured their anonymity, their privacy, more than the average. The idea of invading others’ was anathema. But necessity was a bitch. “Gotta do what we gotta do. War, an’ that.”

“Yeah.” Sighing, she lifted the phone for the third time. “Okay.” And she dialed.

The call with the little poof came up with some more interesting information than the last one had. ‘Uh… Okay, don’t take this the wrong way, Buffy, but I think I may have one of the girls you were dreaming about. She, uh, was kinda teed off at us about the using the old-school weapons and everything, was always complaining that we should use guns and stuff. She chilled out a little once you guys said we could start boning up on newer weapons, after the Scourge thing last year, but she’s still really impatient and doesn’t want to follow orders, and she’s just… I think she’s got a real problem with authority. You know, like with Anakin Skywalker. The third movie’s not out yet, but you can see what’s coming, you know? Any second he’s gonna get way tired of using the slow, patient methods of the Jedi, and turn to the Dark Side. Palpatine already has him by the proverbial…’

Buffy cut him off before he could get wound up into one of his nerd tirades. “Make it quick, Andrew. Give me the Cliff-notes version, okay? I’m about to go into a dead zone.”

“Right. Right! Uh… Last week I caught her trying to talk a bunch of the other girls into breaking off to start their own little sub-cell or whatever; to train with the guns to do some kind of weird action, though they wouldn’t tell us what it was they were planning…’ A fraught pause. ‘I’m scared, Buffy. I don’t know what she’s up to. I kinda want to send her to some other Watcher, some other cell; someone who might be better at keeping her in check, or…’ 

Buffy covered up the receiver of the phone and shot Spike a knowing look. “Check. That’s one.” Turning back to her call, she answered Andrew’s dithering calmly. “What’s her name?”

‘Uh, Simone. Simone Doffler.’

“Well, Andrew, when I meet up with Willow in Cleveland, we’ll see if she can, I dunno, portal Simone over to us and have a chat with her, see if we can’t settle some of her concerns, okay? Or come over there, if that works better, and then…”

‘Oh, really? You’d do that?’ Andrew’s relief was plain over the line. ‘I’d really love that.’

Buffy shrugged, though the lad couldn’t see it, and leaned her head back in the seat to let the air conditioning blow over her. “That’s what we’re here for; to meet challenges as a team. If someone’s too much for you, it’s not a failing. We all have different talents, right? Yours is explaining things in a certain way that shows the new recruits the big picture. Mine is grinding ‘em down and figuring out what their ish is. So, you know; if one method isn’t working, we find another that does.”

‘Right. Yeah. Great!’ Another pause. ‘You don’t think I failed?’

Buffy rolled her eyes, dramatically. “We’re a _team_ , Andrew. We’ll be in touch when we land at Robin’s spot.”

‘O…okay!’

As she closed the phone, Buffy also closed her eyes. “Man, I musta been a real hardass when we first formed the cells, if I made him think that anything he couldn’t do on his lonesome without support was a failure.”

Spike grunted and swung the wheel wide to go around a vast scrap of truck tyre lying like a dead animal in the middle of the highway. “You had to be hard, at first. You’d too may cells to deal with, too many new bloody chits tugging at your sleeves, and not enough emotional bandwidth to spare for coddling everyone.” /And, you’d just had another blow, courtesy of yours truly, to teach you not to care about anyone in case it might destroy you./

“I guess.” She sounded doubtful.

He squeezed her thigh lightly in hopes it would buttress her morale.

Business having been dispensed with, she stared into the middle distance for the next several miles, lost in apparent thought. He didn’t interfere, simply let her ruminate. But he did cover her hand with his, to let her know he was there. 

After a few minutes, she turned her hand over and threaded her fingers into his. “I’m glad I have you, this time around,” she told him quietly, and laid her head back against the seat once more.

“Me, too,” he answered, and took his eyes from the near-empty road for a mo’ to smile at her.

***

**B:  
  
** Dawn’s boyfriend was a part-Ano-Movic who could pass for a very sunburnt human of indeterminate some-kind-of-brown ancestry, with maybe something slightly odd about him that no one could quite pin down. He was also shy and uncertain, and seemed kind of amazed to be meeting the Sunnydale Slayer and the Demon Lord of Beverly Hills. He spent most of the time they were around him either stumbling over his words, or blushing a deep, dark magenta and ducking his head as they waited for their meals at the Denny’s around the corner from the college. Dawn, of course, was as much of a chatterbox as ever, and filled in all conversational blanks with the highlights of her last few months at school; Lit club, Choir club, Media hour, how amazing it was that English Comp class and intro Psych class seemed to almost completely dovetail, and yadda. 

Spike appeared to have no problem joining in the conversation, chuckling and teasing and generally enjoying the evening with his ‘Bit’, though he left Tim to his own devices. It was tough to tell if he thought the young half-breed was worthy of his charge or no. 

For her part, Buffy thought the young Ano-Movic was sweet, attentive, and clearly head over heels for her sister, which was nice. After the dinner was over and the hugging farewells commenced, and they were back at the damn car and ready to head for the airport and their flight to Cleveland, Buffy bumped Spike on the shoulder with her own, wondering what he thought. “Well?”

“Mmm.”

“Mmm?” At his continued, terse silence, she bumped him again. “So, what do you think of Tim?”

“Mmm.” Making an unwilling sort of face, Spike tapped out a cigarette, and lit it, took a few slow, contemplative drags before stubbing it out and ducking into the driver’s seat. “Seems quiet.”

“Quiet.”

“Mmm.” He turned the engine over, put the car in gear. “Wonder how we’re gonna let Z know where we’ve left his ride.”

He wasn’t fooling anybody. No one was ever going to be good enough for his ‘Niblet’. “I’m sure Z has people everywhere up and down this coast. If we find someone who looks mixed and leave word, it’ll probably be fine.”

Spike grunted, sounding preoccupied. “Yeah.”

That was what they ended up doing. Leaving the car in one of the overnight lots at the airport, they kept their eyes open as they made their way through the evening toward the hangar, through security, et cetera. There didn’t seem to be any part-demons in TSA (since it was evening and they were on a not-quite-red-eye, Spike didn’t have to do the sneaking through the back-halls and stuff to hide in the cargo area this time. This flight would be all at night. No risk of his getting burned up or anything, so no reason they couldn’t ride it together, unlike the overseas ones.) It was nice, on occasion, having him up front and sitting with her for a change, but it did mean listening to him gripe about getting through the metal detectors with all his dang rings and stuff, which always made him nuts. “Sodding overzealous bastards,” he muttered, looking teed off as hell as he shoved all his accouterments back on. “Makin’ a fellow take off all his kit…”

He was such a peacock sometimes. Which she found endearing, since she kind of suspected he wore a lot of it either to bolster his mood (which everyone did, so okay, and it kind of made sense today, considering the way everything was going to hell right now), or, on occasion, to fluff his plumage around her. Which was... cute. And, nice to see on him again, considering the way it had all basically vanished for that one depressing stretch after he'd gotten the soul back. 'Spike all dressed up' variously meant 'Spike ready to party' or 'Spike ready for battle'... or even 'Spike hoping to get shagged', depending on circumstances. Either way, he'd picked a bad day to do the full-effect version. /You're such a dope. But I get it./ Desperate times, and everything. His mood had been just as affected by the current sitch as hers was, no matter how he was trying to keep it together for her sake. She could easily tell he was feeling just as freaked out and vulnerable. Hence, armor. “Well, you never know when you might use a skull-ring to blow up the universe…” she teased gently, and gave him a playful nudge.

His repertoire of snarky glares had grown by leaps and bounds, by the way, since he'd began to travel by air with her. 

Eventually they crossed paths with a part-Tintanna working in one of the magazine-and-aspirin gift shops. Easily recognizable, if you knew what to look for, what with the slightly-longer-than-normal arms and the thick-looking sides, the bulge of which really came from hiding an entirely other set of much smaller arms beneath one's clothing.   
  
Buffy pulled her aside while Spike moodily perused the books on offer. “Do you know the guy who runs things in LA? Zavier?”

The Tintanna girl frowned, looking startled, definitely taken aback. “Uh…”

“We have a car to return. If you don’t, it’s okay, we’ll keep our eyes out for someone else who’s connected to the LA scene…”

It was clear that the girl was scanning her to figure out why the hell someone so human-seeming would know about the demon underground. “Wh… Uh…” Shaking her head as if to throw something off, she finally made a face and gave in. “My brother. Works at a bar. For the SF guy. Who works with Z.”

“Great.” She needed to get this over with, get out of here, get on their flight, get going with the next step. All this hurry-up-and-wait was driving her bonkers. “Would it be possible to pass on that his car is here in the overnight lot? He’ll know who had it.”

The girl, from her name-tag, ‘Flora’, nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, okay.”

“I really appreciate that, Flora.” Buffy offered her a nod. “If you ever need anything from the Slayer Organization, pass on the word. Let them know Buffy owes you.”

Flora's eyes widened dramatically. “Oh,” she whispered, sounding awed, and nodded much more effusively. 

Smiling, Buffy turned away to call out to Spike. “Find anything you wanna read?” She was vibrating with urgency, a tattoo of 'hurry, hurry!' chanting in the back of her brain. /Chill, Summers. The plane doesn’t even take off for another hour./ She couldn’t move the world. 

/Dammit./

Spike huffed shortly from his corner of the store. “Not much on offer.”

She paced over to join him, fingered the books. Maybe she could find something worthwhile over here to take her mind off of things for a few hours, till they landed.

Except… there wasn’t much available that looked amazing or anything. Mostly ye standard romances and murder-mysteries. Neither sounded particularly attractive at the moment. Romances, once really racy and exciting to her teen and early-college self, tended to be really formulaic to her anymore, what with having had a Spike in her bed for a few years. And, well, the murder-mystery-type books just hit too close to home, after having been a part of a couple. 

She prodded at a few of the options, considering. To be fair, at least the romances gave her ideas of things to reenact… 

She reached out, tugged out one of them, smiled slightly. “This one’s Regency. I could get you to roleplay it with me…”

He rolled his eyes strenuously at her and snorted so hard he almost blew one of the nearby _People Magazines_ off its rack. “Buffy, that sort of thing is absolute rubbish, and you know it…”

She cuddled close to his side, caught his arm, smiled serenely up at him. “What? You don’t wanna play a repressed gentleman with designs on my person that you cannot for any reason bring yourself to carry out, because it’s not proper?”

Her antics earned her an acid look. “Where’s the bloody fun in that? I got made into a soddin’ vampire for a reason, pet.”

Grinning, she hugged said arm and kissed his cheek. “I know. I’m just playing.”

“Foolish woman.” His eyes, though, said he’d do just about anything for her right now, to help her while away the time without exploding from anxiety, because he was the actual bestest. /And, yanno, he probably wouldn't mind taking his own mind off of stuff, either, whatever he protests./ Though, she was probably asking a bit much with the Regency thing.  
  
Maybe.

With a shrug, she reached out to pick the book off the rack. “It’ll last longer than a _Cosmo_ , anyway.”

With an overly theatrical, disappointed glance in her direction, Spike headed for the register with her. “‘Mind me to bring a book with me next time, so I don’t spend so much bloody time bored out of my skull on every flight.”

“Well, if you didn’t read so stupid-fast…”

“Not my bloody fault.”

“Uhuh.”

The Tintanna girl watched them with wonder as she checked them out, and babbled out the amounts as she handed them their change, awe in her eyes when Buffy smiled their farewells.

Then it was all about sitting around in their departure area, waiting for their boarding time and dealing with the terrible bubble of anxiety that ricocheted between them, and threatened to explode inside her stomach whenever she remotely sat still and thought about the entire concept that they were ‘out’, now. Their whole world.

It was one thing, knowing that most of Los Angeles had become privy, on some traumatized, ‘believed it was a mass-hallucination’ level, to the fact that there were demons and stuff. It was entirely another to have a vampire on national television—right up there, on replay, in fact, on every nearby screen—telling the entire world about vamps and Slayers and the whole demon underground, and bubbling away to everyone about how the whole damn thing worked. 

Every would-be passenger around them was gabbling about it, staring at the dangling flat-screen monitors and chatting in amazement as they watched the repeat interview with Harmony and Andy Dick on GMA; in the Starbucks, in the bagel stand, in the sports bar, and in Hudsons… She could hear people saying they thought it was a hoax, heard people freaking out about it, people staring around them as if wondering if a vampire might come out of the woodwork and attack them at any moment, people scoffing…

Nothing would ever be the same again. Nothing. And they had no idea how this was going to pan out, on a normal day. Much less how this would affect the whole Twilight thing. Would it make everyone just end up cheering for these military guys as they made to round up all the Slayers and all the rest of demonkind, to kill everyone off who was remotely different? /Will this end up like the Initiative, with us all in camps, like Spike warned me it could?/

How was this going to play out? How…

She should make some more calls. Deal with the little stuff. /Or just focus on Spike’s cool hands, working my shoulders, and…/

She couldn’t think about the big picture. Not with this. Which was tough, because she was a big-picture thinker. But in this, she had to stick to the tiny details she could manage, or she would lose her damn mind. So she focused on the pieces she could move; like one of those chess games Spike was always trying to get her to play with him, as if that was ever gonna be her thing. 

/One move at a time, and only look ahead when you’re thinking of what each move might mean to the next move. Don’t look at the entire board. Just think of the ripples this one move might cause. That’s all. Keep an eye on where you’re at, and work outward from here./ 

/Or, maybe try to read this stupid book. Go blank for a while. Something./   
  
Anything, not to think, till she could _do_ something. Because sitting still in the middle of a disaster? So not Buffy Summers’ strong suit.

Thank goodness she had Spike with her on this flight, instead of riding alone while he curled up somewhere in the depressurized cargo bay with everyone’s suitcases. It meant she could snuggle up against him, and maybe avoid reality for a while by the notably wonderful exercise of teasing him with segments of her silly book’s overwrought love scenes. Always a fun pastime, listening to him bitch and moan over the kind of prose people used in those.

Definitely an entertaining way to pass a couple of hours. It could even probably be classified as a minor form of torture… but it _was_ fun. 

Eventually they escaped the endless limbo that was boarding-area-hell, and got on their flight. And Spike gamely made things far more tolerable, by listening to her read her dorky love scenes aloud to him, because he was a good sport. “What do you think about this one?” she whispered, to avoid overly embarrassing nearby passengers; like the one fast asleep on the other side of her, with one of those things around her neck. Spike could hear her, anyway, no matter how low she modulated her tones. “‘His hot, turgid member yearned for her swollen depths, and she for him. She arched up in desperate welcome…’”

“Talk about purple fucking prose.”

“‘He found her sopping center and drove within her, again and ag…’”

“Christ, call a spade a sodding spade! A cock is a cock, and a cunt is a cunt! How can you read this rubbish, pet?”

Buffy fought down a giggle at his indignation. “It’s trying to sound classy.”

“It sounds like it was written by a blushing adolescent.” 

She lost it and buried her face in his shoulder, snorting with mirth. God, it was hilarious to watch his face when she repeated this stuff to him. “So,” she teased, still in a strained undertone, “you don’t want to hear more about how her ‘weeping, womanly parts raged for more of his throbbing piston of love, which surged like a steam engine as he…’”

“Oh, bloody hell, pet,” he hissed, pleading. “I’m beggin’ you to stop.”

“Alright,” she relented, now actually giggling. “It _is_ pretty bad.”

“You _think?”_

“Of course, now I need to find a new way to pass the time.” She beamed at him. “Too bad we’re on a commercial flight. Takes away all those nice opportunities to do the mile-high club thing, try to top the book ourselves.”

Spike made a guttural noise and glanced out the window. “Bet Willow and Xander are gettin’ a nice charter flight, with whoever they’re bringin’ along. ‘Less of course they’re just usin’ the spell again.” He made a discontented sort of face. "Can she do it across oceans, when she's not piggybacking on someone else's spell? Whatever it was, with the other chit?"

Buffy considered it. "Honestly? I'm not sure. Probably, since she got us back. I don't think she used Amy's emanations, or whatever, when she returned us from Drextalcorp."  
  
"Be a nice trick." He shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position against the rigid airline seating. "Either that, or they're flying in a private jet, lucky sods…"  
  
“Yeah, well.” Buffy shrugged. “Active Organization.” She settled in against his twitchy shoulder. “It comes with perks.” She frowned slightly as she set aside the paperback. “I’m still trying to remember this girl Andrew mentioned. I guess she used to be in Rona’s cell before she got moved. You’d think I would remember her, since I went through every cell at least once to help train, and since I was with Andrew’s cell the longest, before I left Rome to set up the HQ. But I can’t bring her to mind.” It niggled at her. 

Spike stilled, sighed, turned to her with understanding written all over his gorgeous features. “Hundreds of soddin’ girls, luv. Makes it tough for one face to stick.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She still felt a little guilty. /Maybe if I’d paid more attention, if I wasn’t so inside my own issues, this one wouldn’t be going off the rails…/

“Can’t do anything about it now, yeah?” His arm slid around her shoulders, drawing her in as closely as they could get with the stupid armrest between them. “We’ll see to it best as we can, now.”

“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I bet Robin can handle her.”

“Mmm.” 

/Hello, neutral./ She hadn’t expected him to be super gung-ho on seeing Robin Wood again, and she didn’t demand that he do cartwheels about it. She did expect that Robin be civil… and that they both cooperate. “If he flips you any shit, you know I’ll be all over his ass.”

“I know it, pet.”

She didn’t have to ask him to be civil in his turn. Spike would always have her back, first and foremost. If Robin didn’t start anything, Spike wouldn’t. At least, not when he was in his 'souled-guy' iteration.

He would finish it, though, if Robin did begin it. Get a little 'former-Spike-like'. And, honestly, she didn’t think it would be irresponsible of him to do so. Thus, best to keep things from starting.

/I wish Cleveland wasn’t so central, dangit./ It was, though; the most central cell in the continental US. Which made it a good meeting-ground for everyone.

Supposedly Rona and Vi would be arriving along about the same time as Wil, Xan, Satsu, and they would be. It was about to be a mini-reunion up in this beyotch.

The minute they landed at Hopkins and picked up their rental car, Spike turned on the radio. Not that they really wanted to hear the news, considering, but it was best to be prepared.

Unfortunately, though expectedly, the newsfeeds were all abuzz with the recent events in LA. “…With comedian Andy Dick confirming the presence of real vampires in the city. He went on _Good Morning America_ this morning to talk with Lara Spencer about the recent, startling events outside Club Elite, captured by paparazzi, and brought with him his new friend, vampire Harmony Kendall, late of Sunnydale, California. Miss Kendall, who has been living in Los Angeles since 2001, claims that Sunnydale was once the home of any number of vampires and, she has stated, many _other_ types of demon, some good, she insists, and some not-so-nice.” 

/Oh man…/

The godawful report then slipped into a pieced-together soundbyte from a predictably bubbly, gum-snapping interview with Harmony. “‘Oh, yeah, there’re a lot of us. We just try to get along, just like anyone, but we’ve had to stay underground, you know, because no one knew we existed. And because we’ve had to avoid being chased down and destroyed if we do anything wrong. Oh, no…’” And she giggled vapidly. “‘We don’t have to kill to eat. I mean, we _could…_ but, I mean, _I_ don’t. I eat pigs’ blood, cows’ blood, hospital blood, mortuary blood… Stuff like that…"  
  
Spike was rolling his eyes so hard Buffy could _feel_ it. Which, she shared in his disdain, since half of the issue was that Harmony just wasn't the best hunter ever, and to hear Spike tell it, never really had been. 'Shit at the chat-up' had been his summary, once upon a time. Probably in that case, why not just stick with a 'fad diet', since it was easier, if she could afford it. Meanwhile, here she was on radio and TV, speaking for all vampires, like every single one of them was all peace and love or something, which, just, no. /Way to make it sound like you're the unbiased sample, and everyone's so safe right now, Harmony! Oh jeez, so many people are going to just walk out on the street right now and think every vampire's gonna act like that, and no one's gonna hurt 'em, when it's totally like a fifty-fifty, since the ones out on the street like that are probably hunting; either for a donor or a bloodbag. And that means they're gonna get drained…/ 

"…I’d actually like to start a movement; to keep humans safe, you know? Like… a Reformed Vampire Movement. Why? Well, for one thing, it’s just better for everyone. It’s like a health-food craze. We’d all get along better, and it’d keep the Slayers off of us...’” 

Buffy closed her eyes. /Oh, God, here we go./ Her hands were shaking. So much was riding on how Harmony, of all people, portrayed her girls, which… Between a chance meeting last night and a brief plug about altered attitudes, and years of not-so-great interactions in Sunnydale—most of them wholly deserved—it could go any way. Which, considering the dangers right now, Buffy wasn't entirely sure whether she thought it wouldn't be better if it went the other way. And yet...

“‘Who are the Slayers? Oh, they’re sort of the supernatural police. They kill any demons who go too far. But most of us are just trying to mind our own business.’” 

Another voice broke in at that point; the vaguely-familiar tones of some host or another. “‘Can you tell us more about these… Slayers?’”

/Can we not?/   
  
Though... /This might be our chance. If Harmony gets them interested enough, will they seek us out for interviews? Can we spin it, if they do? Explain how people need to be wary, while still making us sound like _not_ the bad-guys?/ Who would she pick to be a spokesperson, if that happened? Who would be best in front of the camera? 

Her brain spun.

“‘Well,’” Harmony answered, sounding honestly confused, “‘we all used to be terrified of ‘em, but apparently they’ve backed off of killing any of us who are trying to be good. Which is nice, since, you know; live and let live, right? Oh, how do I know? Well, I’ve got confirmation from on high. From my ex’s girlfriend. She’s the big cheese Slayer, so hopefully she’s telling the truth. And we went to high school together, and she’s never killed _me_ yet, so here’s hoping. What? No, I’m not really a secretary. I’m an _actress_.’

Spike reached forward and flipped off the radio, his movements all tense. “Well, that could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah.” Buffy opened her eyes to stare unblinkingly at the road. “I guess thank goodness we ran into her when we did, so we could get a good word in there, edgewise?”

“Hurrah for excellent timing.”

Buffy frowned into nothing as the realization struck her square between the eyes. “A little too excellent.” She remembered very clearly, now, Cordelia telling her that the Powers—or somebody; these Chaos Gods, maybe?—would continue to use her occasionally to get stuff accomplished. /She told me They were using me as a way to get the inside scoop on things in Hell-A, even though I was technically off the leash by then. I wonder who’s using me for this Twilight thing now?/ 

Cordy had also told her that the Powers had let her turn ‘gray hat’, as it were—to, in essence, go back to being Chaos’ tool instead of one for the Powers only, in exchange for getting her service, and Spike’s, during the whole Hell-A deal, because at the time they’d lost hold of Angel. /But what does that mean for us right now?/

/Dammit, Cordelia. I should’ve asked you about length of contract./ Those Powers bastards were as bad as their Senior Partners enemies when it came to fine print. Once they had you, they never freaking let go.

At her side, Spike grunted agreement, sounding suspicious. Which was real, because if they weren’t being used, then that whole thing with Harmony was just way too coincidental. And considering how it was helping them out now… /Ugh. I hate to say it, but I’ll take it, whoever’s pulling the strings. It’s way better than every Slayer in the world ending up some kind of victim of bad public opinion./ Especially since it sounded like things were shaping up, ridiculous or not, for Harmony to be some kind of public darling poster child for vampire rights or something. /How bizarre is that, for people to celebrate their killers as ‘the cool, it-thing’?/ “I guess people will forgive anything if it confirms their conspiracy theories or whatever as true.”

“Mmm.” 

Turning to him, Buffy eyed her guy as he swung the rental car placidly around a left turn—without stopping first, of course, the rebel—and scanned the street, seeking their goal address. “What will it feel like if you don’t have to hide what you are anymore? If all the sudden it’ll be okay to be a vampire? If people start going out of their way to offer to be your donor and stuff? If it becomes an in-vogue thing?”

Spike’s face twisted, and his expression went all sarcastic. “No doubt it’ll come along with a load of religious wackjobs tryin’ to assassinate us every second because we’re an affront to God. Already seen that. It’s how Dru got hurt that one time.” 

/Oh. Huh. The more you know./  
  
His face twisted slightly, and he moved his fingers in that way that said any minute he'd be lighting up a cigarette. "Not that it wasn't deserved, in the moment, but the fact remains... bein' known isn't precisely the best move, when it comes to bein' a vamp. Best to play it a bit closer to the vest, yeah?" If possible, his expression went even more sour. "Whatever my upbringing might have said to the alternative."  
  
/Yeah, well... you were kind of oddballs./  
  
His eyes drifted briefly over to hers, before returning to the road. “Bloody inquisition, pet,” he finished, sounding all bad and moody. "Not worth the trade, however easy the meals might get." He swung the wheel around hard, backed into a spot along a curb, parallel-parking them between an old ’89 Camry and a slightly newer Taurus. Cutting off the engine, he turned to her, looking troubled. “This is gonna get ugly, Buffy. Whatever happens with the Twilight bit. Very soddin’ ugly.”

She nodded acceptance of his interpretation. He’d been around a heck of a lot longer than she had. He was a damn good judge of human nature. And honestly, she doubted he was wrong in his reads. She couldn’t just call him pessimistic and move on.

The whole thing made her feel tense, freaked, maybe still more than a little nauseous. “I know,” she whispered.

“We’ll likely never be able to submerge and relax again,” he informed her, eyes turned now to capture hers, and filled with something agonized. That was for her, she knew. He’d been living under the radar for over a century. Buffy, though… 

The only peace she had ever known, out of the public eye, as it were, was in the last few months. The eye had been a small one for most of her life spent as a servant of the people, but it had been nice to be anonymous for a damned change. 

The idea of losing that anonymity really, really hurt. “I know,” she whispered it again. Frustration swamped her, turning slowly but surely to anger, because, _god_. They had only enjoyed a little over eight months of obscurity, before it had all come crashing down. “Why? Why did this have to happen?”

He shrugged, but there was no ease in it. “Guess we’re not meant to live the quiet life, Love.”

The trapped feeling sank in her like a stone. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want _any_ of it. She just wanted to hide somewhere with him. To just _be_. Run away from it all; maybe travel together. See the world. Go to college someday, not… 

Not more notoriety. It had been bad enough being known throughout the demon world. To be infamous in the human world as well would be…

/I never asked to be famous. And neither did he./

/Well, not since his Whirlwind days, anyway./ 

“We’ll get on, Slayer. We always do.” Thumb under her chin, he kissed her, then undid his seatbelt and cracked his door to step out. 

Drawing in a deep, fortifying breath to quell the puppy-sized butterflies cavorting sickeningly in her abdomen, she did the same.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(Quote by Hugh Prather)  
  
We shall see how the ongoing fallout... well, falls out.   
Oh, and... if anyone wants to theorize about my Slayer dreams, feel free. I love it when people do that, *g*.  
  
(side-note: my computer hath died, so I will con't to endeavor when it comes to updating regularly, but writing time and posting may be affected till I can replace it. I hope not, tho!)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are ramping up very swiftly now. And I have OPINIONS. To quote an old and wonderful song, "There ain't no good guys, there ain't no bad guys... there's only you and me..." Everything has a side, everyone can be right, everyone can be wrong, and everyone's just trying to survive, dammit. I like to explore that concept, obviously.
> 
> How it plays out in the public eye... That's INTERESTING.

  
“Revolution is not a one time event.” 

* * *

Robin’s Cleveland cell had appropriated an old two-story Bally’s gym that had gone out of business for some reason or another. The place was pretty damned perfect for slayerly uses, considering it had workout rooms, places to hang heavy bags, a gym floor, a jogging track, a pool, changing rooms, showers, the works. It even had a bunch of little side-rooms that had probably once been used for classes like karate or tai chi or yoga or whatever, that his girls now used as often for Slayer instruction. All in all, it was one of the roomiest and best-appointed of the cells’ centers.

When they knocked—the doors were locked, for the moment, probably since Harmony’s big reveal—Buffy was unsurprised to see Robin himself open the door. “Hey, Buffy.” His dark eyes left hers immediately to flash up to meet Spike’s, though, something illegible in them. “Spike.” His tones remained neutral, which was… good, so far. 

“Hey, Robin.” 

After a moment’s charged silence he turned his body aside, gave a faint quarter of a nod. “Come in.” And his gaze, once more, flickered from her to Spike, heavy with unspoken things. 

Spike followed her inside, tense but silent.

They passed the former service desk in the foyer, penetrated deeper into the building, through an inside door. Just past the entry was a vast interior space filled with workout equipment and, in the far-right corner, weightlifting stuff. The far-left corner held a kickboxing area with floor-to-ceiling punching bags and other gear. They’d gotten the place, still all decked out, at a steal, when the Bally’s went bankrupt. Heck of a find. Buffy remembered how excited Robin and Faith had been over it when they’d first run across it with the real estate chick. 

It really was a damn good site. She could feel Spike looking it over with reluctant satisfaction. “Damn nice facility,” he allowed after a moment’s survey. It was the first he had spoken since they’d left the car.

“Yeah, we had some good luck,” Robin agreed, unfreezing a little.

“Where are all the girls?” Buffy asked. It wasn’t all that late, after all. 

“Upstairs.” Robin glanced up toward the high ceiling, hands planted in his slacks pockets, as if he fully intended to keep them there, where they might stay out of trouble. “They have some book-work in the evenings, and then it’s dorm-time till lights out for the younger ones. The older ones get a little private time, as long as they don’t get out of hand.” He winced, then. “Especially with what’s going down right now, I figured it’d be best to keep ‘em close to home.”

“Yeah.” /God, this is a mess./ Nodding, Buffy glanced back over her shoulder, toward the entrance. “The Europe contingent beat us here?”

“Yeah. They’re upstairs too. I’ll tell ‘em you made…”

“Hey, Buffy!” 

“Hey, B…”

“Buffy, you made it! Hey, Spikester!”

Spike blinked at her side, understandably amazed at this greeting from Xander. _“Spikester?”_ he protested.

Xander blushed slightly but did not back down. “Yeah, well… y’know. I figure we’re even maybe kinda verging on… friends, by now, huh?”

Spike remained still and silent for a moment, then, with a tilt of his head, nodded. “Reckon that’s true. Damn strange, innit?”

“Hell yes, it is, but that’s life.”

“Yeah.”

There was a brief moment of awkward silence. Buffy felt her lips twitch. 

“Alright, alright,” Willow interrupted. “This is too touching. I can’t handle it.” Stepping away from the foot of the stair, she reached up, kissed a very startled Spike on the cheek, then hugged Buffy. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Buffy followed it up with a hug for Xander, who then gravely shook Spike’s hand, to Spike’s clear amusement.

Behind them, Faith nodded and jerked her hand in that quick, waist-high way of hers that was more or less acknowledgement. Buffy lifted a brow in response. “Hitched a ride in?” she asked of her sister-from-another-mother.

Faith shrugged it off. “Seemed like things were going down. Sounded interesting.”

Buffy definitely appreciated the other ur-Slayer’s presence. “Sweet,” she summarized, then lifted her gaze to the top of the stairs. “Who else is here?”

Robin opened things up before any of the rest could fill in. “Rona, Vi… Andrew and Satsu stayed in Europe. Giles said he couldn’t come, but he sent Courtney to represent him.”

Buffy had more or less expected that. It still hurt to hear it. “Yeah, well… Nice of Courtney to come,” she answered, trying to keep her tones even.

At her side, Spike moved in a subtle bid to lay a supportive hand to the small of her back. 

“Alright.” Buffy squared her shoulders. Might as well get this show on the road, then, if that was all they had. “Where do you want us to meet, Robin? This is your place.”

They ended up in a side-room that had probably once been reserved for small meetings or classes of some sort. Vi, who had apparently gained a great deal of self-confidence in the last year and a half, now looked on Spike with clear-eyed approval from where she sat cross-legged next to Rona. Rona, in turn, was her usual outspoken self, if less brash than she had once been. “Good to see you’re back, Spike.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it.”

“Can’t keep a good vampire down, I guess.”

“Somethin’ like that.”

She and Vi exchanged a couple of glances, then Vi grinned broadly and faced him square. “After the meeting, you wanna have a rematch?”

Spike’s brow went up, and he shot a quick glance toward Buffy. Buffy shrugged to let him know it was entirely up to him. He turned back to the girls. “At your service, ladies,” he answered lazily. “Though…” He didn’t glance at Buffy this time, but it was easy enough from her end to tell he was measuring her weariness-level, before he spoke next. “Maybe tomorrow, before we leave.” 

“Sweet,” Vi answered, and nodded at Rona, who nodded back and tilted her head. “Twenty?” Vi asked.

“Twenty,” Rona agreed, sounding self-assured as all hell.

Spike scoffed at their byplay. “Make it fifty. It’s a lot more interesting.”

Over by the wall, Robin was rolling his eyes so hard Buffy could almost hear it. “If we could get down to business?”

Xander snorted way too loudly. “Slayers,” he commented, all loftily, and then lifted his cell. “Speaking of, I have Satsu on the line.”

“I have Andrew,” Wil put in, and held up hers. 

Leaning in, Courtney set hers before her feat. “I got Giles.”

“Alright,” Buffy answered, calling the meeting to order. /Thank God, we can finally take some action./ “So what we have going on is a threefold problem. One, we’ve been outed to the world. And the person who’s outed us is on the right side of the PR equation, since she’s got this famous guy, Andy Dick, on her side, along with all his connections and paparazzi…”

“Which, let’s be real. As comedians go, Andy Dick is high up there. And hilarious.” Xander sounded more than a little starstruck.

“I believe you.” Buffy honestly still didn’t know who the guy was. “Anyway, if she’s on _Good Morning America_ and stuff talking up the vamp side of things, then it’s only good timing that Spike and I got in there quick enough before this all went down to let her know that Slayers aren’t automatically after everyone insisting on immediate death for every demon. And, you know, the fact that Spike and I were in Hell-A with so many LA peeps, and helping so many of the peaceful demons as well as the humans is gonna count for a lot. But we’re gonna need to jump on that side of the PR war pronto if we’re not gonna come out looking like the _mondo_ bad-guys in this equation.”

“How the hell vampires, who actually eat people, are coming out of this thing looking good to everyone, is beyond me…” Robin started, sounding hugely offended.

‘It’s the fantastic beasts effect,’ Andrew put in, echoing all tinny over his speaker. 

A short silence greeted this remark, as tended to happen whenever Andrew referenced… well, anything. “The huh?” Buffy finally inquired.

‘Like a beloved cryptid thing,’ Andrew explained gamely. ‘People don’t care what kind of fairytale monster it is; when one comes true, that’s exciting. Even if it’s dangerous. It’s like, if Jurassic Park ever actually happened. People would be stoked to see a T-Rex, even if it tried to eat them, because dinosaur!’

‘I would hate to say it, but I agree with Andrew,’ Giles put in over his own speaker. He sounded pained.

/Yeah, okay./ Buffy made a sour face as she accepted this very plausible explanation. “Which puts us at a disadvantage right away, since no one’s ever heard of Slayers. We’re a best kept secret. The only demon-hunters anyone’s ever heard of were, like, Dr. Van Helsing, and…”

“And plenty of people kinda felt like Dracula should’ve won, because he seemed romantic, and hated on Van Helsing…” Willow put in.

“Ponce,” Spike muttered darkly. 

‘Be that as it may, Spike…’

“Anyway,” Buffy jumped in, before the Brits got into a debate about literature-as-propaganda, because she’d heard it all before from her mate, “we’re behind in this game. Which brings us to problem two. We’ve been letting the girls mind their own business who don’t wanna join up, but right now, now that vamps are out in the spotlight, if they stake one, it’ll look like we OK’d it, since no one’s gonna get that we don’t have control over every Slayer. So we need to go back over the list of any Slayers who didn’t join up, and at least talk them into following the ‘no-kill-unless-absolutely-necessary’ rule. Because one thing we _really_ don’t need right now are a bunch of vigilantes coming out of the woodwork because all the vamps are. It’ll make us play right into the hands of anyone who doesn’t like us…”

Her segue into problem three was seized by Faith. “That’s a problem, B, since we owe those girls their freedom. No one says you have to join the union, y’know?”

Buffy sighed and ran a hand through her hair to shove it out of her eyes. /Dammit./ “I know it. God knows I know it. I’d still be hiding out in our tiny, no-one-knows-us town right now if I could, myself. But this is dire times. We need to at least try to get them to get it, that we need to play it close to the vest with the stakings right now. We can’t risk some vamp going poof on a camera somewhere who we can’t prove is killing right then.” She leaned forward, stabbing her finger down hard onto the smelly old floor mats. “And let me tell you guys straight up; to get along in a city, most sane vamps play it pretty quiet. The killers are the outliers.”

“That still just sounds so _weird_ to me, based off of what we saw growing up on the hellmouth,” Xander muttered.

Robin made a sour face. “They all seem pretty ready to rumble here.”

“Hellmouth,” Buffy reiterated flatly. “It messes with everyone’s heads. But I’m betting the ones here aren’t nearly as rowdy as they were in Sunnydale.”

Her former boss frowned, looking thoughtful. “Now that you mention it…”

“This hellmouth doesn’t have the First Evil camped in it, for one thing,” she pointed out, and shrugged it off. “And, let’s be real. If you’re out in any city looking for the ones who’re doing it wrong, you’re gonna find ‘em and stake ‘em. You’re not gonna find the ones who _aren’t_ eating people to death. So then you end up assuming that’s what all vamps do. But I’m gonna tell you flat out; I’ve seen a vamp nest playing it safe and quiet where I live right now, and they _don’t_ kill. They teach their fledges not to kill. They have very specific, very tightly-followed rules, and if any of their nest breaks ‘em, they dust that vamp themselves; no Slayer needed.” The awed faces around her were a hell of a thing to watch. “And, from what I can tell based on the amount of action I _don’t_ get in that area, that’s the much more common denominator out in the world. Which, when you get right down to it, makes a helluva lot more sense than thousands of vamps running around like Angeluses nest did, right? Because if they all acted like the Whirlwind, everyone on the planet would’ve known a long time ago that vamps existed; that they’re _not_ fairytales. We’d already be dealing with this problem years ago, because there’d be no hiding it. But instead, that nest was viewed as the worst of the worst.”

Spike shrugged lightly. “A title we earned, yeah?”

Buffy shot him a quelling look. “Exactly my point. You weren’t a normal nest. Everyone thought you were nuts.”

“Fair.”

“Wait, so…” Xander looked stunned. “So… you guys weren’t how most vamps acted?”

Spike narrowed his eyes at Xander, his expression disgusted. “You don’t become bloody famous to other _demons_ by doing what everyone does, innit?”

Willow was nodding, as if slotting something into place in a mental file. “That makes total sense, actually.” And she tilted her head, looking fascinated. “So, Spike… how many vampires do you think there actually are in the world, living quietly and unnoticed by humanity, in a way that doesn’t rouse Slayer interest?”

Spike looked at the ceiling and gave the impression of someone doing calculations in his head. “There’re, what? Six-point-five billion humans runnin’ about the globe right now?” He ruminated for a second longer, then shrugged. “Probably that means there’re upwards of maybe six million vamps about.”

“Bullshit!” Rona exclaimed roughly. “If there were that many, the whole damn world would know about vamps!” And then she caught herself and blushed furiously. Her face remained belligerent, however, as all eyes turned on her. “I mean, they already would’ve,” she adjusted, sounding a little lame.

“Precisely my point,” Spike went on evenly. “But no one has, except in unproven legend, till now, even with your mass media an’ all these bloody cameras tryin’ to catch us on film. Should tell you somethin’.”

‘Aside from that vampires are excellent at sneaking about,’ Giles muttered from his phone.

Buffy rolled her eyes, but inside, she was totting up the figures, and… Alright. The numbers were massive—a shock indeed—but it proved her point to the rest of the group. “Six million, compared to six and a half billion’s like, this tiny percentage of a number, right? I mean, barely noticeable, when you spread ‘em out in these tiny pockets all over the world. It’s like…” She frowned and waved her fingers vaguely. “Argh, I was never good at percentages in school…”

“Less than point-oh-one percent,” Willow jumped in, ever helpful when it came to conceptual mathematics. “When you get into billions versus millions, things get really, _really_ huge.”

“Which means,” Spike went on easily, unshaken, “only a few thousand of that number cause a fuss. Hundred thousand, maybe. Which is still enough to be nightmare material from a human perspective. Definitely enough to thin the herd a bit, keep your girls busy…” He tipped his head to Rona and Vi, who were staring at him in shock. “Still never make a dent in the human population, though, when there are billions of you lot. Couldn’t do, when the prey population’s so bloody vast.” When Buffy shot him a warning, ‘don’t go there, honey’ sort of glance, he shrugged and pulled it back a little. “Self-preservation’s made us a rotten weapon,” he finished blandly. “We’d likely be a bigger hassle to you if vamps all worked the way I’d been taught, and were all out slaughtering everyone we eat at every turn…”

“Or, you’re lying about the numbers,” Robin interrupted grimly.

Spike didn’t bother to get het up about the disbelief Robin was throwing at him. “Predator-prey dynamics, 101,” he countered, without inflection. “Compared to several billion, a couple million’s nothin’; like Willow said. Every vamp who ever existed could eat a human a week, be the greatest plague humanity had ever seen, and humanity would still bounce back just bloody fine… but you’d also hunt us down and destroy us after a bit. All you’d have to do is admit to yourselves we’re real and come after us in force. Which is why the big reveal Harm just did—fuckin’ idiot that she is—is a bigger damned threat to vamps than anything’s ever been since the invention of the soddin’ Slayer.” He grinned over at Buffy, handing her her well-deserved kudos.   
  
She returned his gaze, troubled by the ramifications. She didn’t want her girls to become the world’s bad guys, because Harmony had turned vampires into the world’s new darlings in order to maintain her own survival. Hell, she couldn’t blame Spike’s ditzy ex for using her moment in the spotlight to twist the narrative, either. Survival was exactly that. Heck; for that matter, she was kind of impressed at Harmony’s PR knowhow. Airhead or no, the ex-cheerleader was obviously more savvy than the bimbo persona let on. 

Still… there had to be a way for everyone to win here, now that the cat was out of the bag. To get humanity to see the shades of gray in this. /“There ain’t no good guys, there ain’t no bad guys… there’s only you and me…”/ The old song lyric sprang to mind, from something Mom used to listen to on the radio.

It was complicated. And the Slayers had to survive this, just as much as the vampires did. /And we have our rogues, just as much as the vamps do. Oh, God, how are we gonna get through this, while under the spotlight the whole time, with a bunch of people who like to see things in black and white?/ Heck, her own people liked to see things in black and white, and she was still trying to train them out of it, and…

“We’re not that dumb,” Spike was still explaining, cool as a cucumber. “We don’t want humanity to go on a genocidal spree with us; no more’n the sanest among us would want to wipe out humanity, you bein’ our food source, and our potential breeding pool, innit?”

It had never made sense to Buffy before now, how humans could be both food-source and breeding material for vampires; not till she had the numbers laid out for her like this. But, painted so starkly, it made a lot more sense. Vampires could, as Spike had just pointed out, chow down to their hearts content on humanity, and barely make a dent, and there’d still be plenty of breeding stock left alive for adventures in baby-makin’. /If humans got angry enough and started trying to whack every vamp that ever unlived, they’d just have to turn on humanity and start making everyone who came at ‘em into more vamps till there was some kind of balance. To in effect breed us out. But then at some point there’d be no food animals left… And what? They’d have to eat actual cows?/

No way. No way vampires would ever actually want to push humanity into a war. It just made no sense, whatever they’d originally been designed to do by their Old Ones. 

The status quo was a whole lot less messy, and it worked a heckuva lot better for the preservation of both species; the predator, and the prey pool.

As if reading her mind, Spike went on blandly. “We know that however many humans we can kill on a hunt, if a thousand humans came after ten of us, we’d end up dust. So we play it cool…” 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Robin interrupted hotly. “I know your history. When did _you_ ever…”

Spike lifted a brow, totally unruffled. “When I was a fledge, Angelus knocked me on my arse more than once for causing trouble enough to set a mob after us. Even _he_ —most famous, most dangerous vampire of all bloody time—knew better than to brass off too many humans at once. He preferred to keep his… artistry undercover, to an extent, and to leave before the humans got wind of it. That should tell you something.” 

Giles’ voice appeared between them once more, tinny over the phone lying in front of a silent Courtney. ‘Spike has a point. And the numbers do, indeed, match up with the Council’s census of demonic, ah…’ A short hesitation. ‘Well, we were taught to call it ‘swarming’, but I shouldn’t like to use those terms, now I’m aware of how sentient these beings, in fact, are.’

Her former Watcher fell silent, leaving Buffy staring at the phone in something beyond amazement, beyond shock. All this time, Giles had had actual _numbers_ of vampires in his hands, had known how many were lying around, and hadn’t ever _told_ her? 

/But then, if you knew how many actually exist, in a general sense, then you would’ve known what percent of ‘em actually go around killing people, which…/ 

Her brain couldn’t hold this information. “Wh… You _knew?_ You knew, and you never told me that… That…”

Giles remained silent for a moment, before coming in again. ‘We were taught that at any moment, those numbers could change. That the submerged population should be exterminated in case of… Of swarming.’

/Wh…/ She couldn’t even _think_.

Spike took up the conversation, hand on her thigh. “Can see why they would think that way. The only ones your lads and girls would ever contend with are the outliers. And since that lot aren’t exactly the best representatives, I ‘magine your concept of vamp behavior was a bit skewed.” 

Buffy stared at her love, wondering just what the hell made him act so… So giving, when it came to a bunch of jerks who had never once remotely bothered to actually understand the true behavior of creatures she had been sent to dust, at birth and without provocation half the time; she and her forebears, for millennia. 

“Probably never figured out what ‘set ‘em off’, is it?” Spike went on quietly. “You were in a war, so you just went with what worked. Never endeavored to figure out the rest, never knew about vamp rules and customs. Just sent Slayers into an area with what your books took to calling ‘swarming activity’, to knock off the mad ones…”

/Oh, yeah, that would be exactly their MO, wouldn’t it? ‘The vamps in, oh, New York, say, are ‘swarming’ right now, better send in a Slayer’. No reason to figure out why. Vampires are just animals; they can’t have politics, right? Oh my freaking _God_ , these guys were the absolute worst!/ 

“…The results of overbreeding on the hellmouths,” Spike continued, sounding flat as hell. “The louts and the idiots as can’t conform. The lone wolves and the like who aren’t part of any nest and thus have no training, no reason to act appropriately or to behave according to the local laws…”

Robin broke in again, sounding disbelieving and offended. “Vampires have _laws?”_

“A couple fairly stringent ones, actually,” Spike informed him, eyes turning to pin him with lazy challenge. “Slayers just save the Masters the effort of dusting the offenders, if they’re about. But if there isn’t a chit about with a stake, the local Master dusts anyone who goes off half-cocked, causing trouble, and who isn’t under their blood-protection.” He shrugged once more, as if dismissing something. “Eventually, anyway.” He tugged out his lighter and tapped it in his palm, probably for something to fiddle with, and glanced over at Buffy. “There’ll still be enough of the prats about to dust; and probably the Masters won’t mind the help, yeah? Especially since right now, with this business, I don’t mind sayin’ obviously there’ll be incidents. I’m not gonna lie and say there won’t be, and that it won’t be tough to manage, under a spotlight.” 

His eyes moved around the room, taking in each Slayer-cell leader. “It’s gonna be a balancing act, where you and your girls will have to dust any number of brainless fledges who can’t control themselves, when starry-eyed idiots obsessed with the new vampire craze throw themselves at every vamp they see, begging to be a donor..." His mouth twisted in disgust. "Or go walking down the street in the wrong part of town, dressed like food. Obviously there’re bad actors, or there’d be no need for Slayers. Problem bein’, because you lot’ll be in the public eye as well, and some vamps will be having a perfectly consensual meal, you’ll have to judge, when’s it an attempted killing? Which is a tough thing to figure, when you’re used to dusting on sight and never bothering to wonder, was it that, before.”

/Something I never bothered to ask myself/ Buffy admitted internally. She’d just staked without thought. Who knew how many consensual moments she’d ended in flying dust, sending the donor running down an alley, screaming. /Though, to be fair, it’s not like we can easily tell when it turns from fun and games to deadly./ “When it’s consensual, things are a little more cuddly-looking,” Buffy put in dryly. “Granted, if the person starts to go unconscious, it’s usually a sign the vamp’s gone too far, and you need to pull your stake, and send the donor to the closest hospital. But yeah. We’re gonna have to play it safe. And maybe send a spokesperson to a news outlet or something, now they know we exist…”

‘Oh, dear Lord,’ Giles muttered from his phone. ‘Quentin Travers will be rolling over in his grave.’

/So not sad about that./ “I’m being real, here. We’re playing a pitched PR battle at this point. We’re gonna have to be super careful not to look like the bad guys, even though we know the vamps are gonna make themselves look bad on plenty of occasions.” She scanned the anxious-looking group. “They’re gonna make mistakes, and we’re still gonna have to do our job. We’re just gonna have to do it with cameras on us, with the world ready to think we’re being too hard on the vamps. Unless it’s obvious we have good reason, we can’t make ourselves look bad.”

They all exchanged glances, tense and worried. Understandably, since it was a heck of a muddy proposition. So much easier to simply stake-on-sight. Which, they could do, if a vamp, disturbed mid-meal, came at them, high off the hunt and spoiling for a fight. It would happen, as often as before, unless they'd been cautioned by their masters to play it equally safe in the name of PR. It was simply that the Slayer-set could not strike first anymore. 

They had to have just cause.

Spike prodded at the mat beneath his knees with the end of his lighter. “Luckily, if there’s one thing I’ve noticed about humans over the course of a century, it’s that you lot have a short attention span. Hopefully this business with Harm’ll blow over quick, and something new will catch everyone’s focus before long. There’ll be a new media darling in a coupla months, and we can try to go back to something like normal.” 

The meeting perked up a little. Buffy wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she didn’t need demoralized Slayers, either. 

At her side, Spike tilted his head thoughtfully. “Maybe eventually get the chits trained up enough, move to a different model. A pair, maybe, per city, with some sort of support-staff. A Witch, a Watcher, a counselor of some sort. The two Slayers can take shifts, so neither burns out…” He twiddled his lighter pensively. “Maybe a couple of the more inoffensive demons as interlocutors with the local population, to help with diplomatic relations…” He shot Buffy a grin. “And, if either of the chits ends up in a relationship with ‘em, well, so much the better, innit?”

Buffy stared at him in amazement. With one stroke, her lover had just redesigned their entire concept of what a ‘cell’ was. /And it could work. It really, really could./ “It’d have to be one older and one younger Slayer. Or, really, one more experienced one and one less…”

‘Oooh, like a Padawan learner and a Jedi knight,’ Andrew broke in over his phone, sounding exalted. ‘A kinda apprenticeship program! I could see that, as long as there’s enough support so that no one goes to the Dark Side…’

/Here we go/ Buffy thought, shaking her head.

“I can see that working,” Xander broke in, sounding wondering. “We’d need to train up more Watcher-y types, but yeah. Huh.” His eyes drifted back to Spike, and he shook his head once, like a dog shaking water from his coat. “Seriously, though, man? With the, you know, masters and laws and stuff?”

Spike lifted his cigarette-laden hand in a ‘would I lie?’ gesture, which, considering present company, was kind of a crapshoot, what response he’d get. 

In this case, though, Xander just nodded solemnly. “Yeah, we might have to come up with a redesign, then. Eventually.” And he shot Willow a weird, sideways look. “We’d need a heckuva lot more witches…”

Wil frowned. “I’d prefer a two-person program in that department too. At least. It’s too easy to fall off the deep end if you have too much pressure on you.” She shook her head firmly. “A coven’s better. Stay hooked into a local one, at least; one that’s been vetted, to make sure it doesn’t have dark leanings…” 

/And there’s our voice of experience./ “Well, we don’t need to redesign the Organization overnight, but at least we know how we can maybe approach things later, if our current model’s not serving our needs and our girls the way we need it to…” They were kind of getting far afield for the moment, anyway. The whole point of this discussion was that there were a zillion vamps running around, and also rogue Slayers, and they had to find a way to make sure that their paths didn’t cross while the limelight was on all of them. “In the meantime, Wil, can you cast another net to see who’s with us and who isn’t?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. And Xander can re-check the rolls, find out which girls we should maybe check in with…”

“Yeah. For sure.” Xan still sounded a little awed by the rundown of vampire numbers hiding just below the surface of human commerce and doing no appreciable harm. 

“Maybe make it about letting them know that we’ve discovered that some Slayers can do magicks,” Wil went on, all thoughtful. “Just an update. That’s worth telling them, since it upsets the rules as we knew them before, offer them an assessment if they’re interested…”

Buffy flung up a hand, about done being blindsided by new shocks for today. “Wait. What?”

Willow turned to her, looking surprised. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Some of the Slayers can do magicks. Some of ‘em are pretty good. Heck, I found out some vamps can even do magicks…”

“You… Wh…”

Spike was right there with her. “What the bloody hell?”

“Yeah. Remember that battle we told you about that happened in Tokyo, when a couple of vamps tried to steal the fake Scythe?” Buffy found herself nodding slowly, staring, with Spike equally stunned at her side. “Well, one of the vamps was also a witch; had been before being vamped, and she didn’t lose her powers when she died. She was actually a student of my same teacher, Saga Vasuki…” Wil blushed slightly. “Anyway… We used to think that the ability to use magicks was tied to the human soul, so it must leave when the human soul died and gave way for the demon, but we must’ve been wrong, if the demon can still do…”

Buffy smiled broadly at that, feeling vindicated. As surprises went, this one was almost a nice one. “No, it just means what I’ve always thought. That the human soul and the demon one don’t exchange places. They just share space, and it’s only a question of which one takes the driver’s seat.”

They all stared at her. Well, everyone except for Spike, who was well used to her theory by now.   
  
Xander was open-mouthed in shock. “Wait, is this what you were talking about when you told Spike to ‘keep the demon up-front’?”

“Yup.”

“But… That’s just because he went and got…”

“Nope.”

“But…” Xander protested, stunned by her blithe responses.

“Longer conversation, Xan.”

“But…”

“That’s bullshit,” Robin cut in yet again, harsh.

Buffy turned firmly away from Xander to eye Nikki Wood’s son in challenge. “If you want to discuss this in depth later, we can have a nice, long chat about it. But I can tell you right now that literally everything that we were taught about how vampires work was wrong. Heck…” She shrugged. “Probably it was based on the Turok-Han or something, since if anyone’s the poster-children for a demon taking over a human body, it’s them. I bet the Council just never revised the literature when the newer models came out.”

At her shoulder, Spike muttered something about rotten scholarship. Robin stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. She stepped right past it. Now wasn’t the time. “Anyway, yeah, that’d be a great excuse to re-contact all the girls who weren’t gung-ho at first, Wil. I like your idea of a quick, voluntary survey to see, for their sakes, if they have the magicks aptitude, or whatever. And if so, do they want training?” She shot a glance at Xander, who was still spluttering. “Offhand, can you think of anybody we completely missed, though? Who didn’t really like the spiel, or…”

Nudged off his track, Xander frowned. “Well, there was that one girl in LA who sounded kinda freaked when we tried to talk to her on the phone. Soledad whatever…”

/Okay, worrying./ “Freaked how?”

He shrugged, looking at a loss. “I dunno. She got all tense and hung up on us.”

“Well, damn,” Buffy answered, frustration rising. “I wish we woulda known that when we were still in LA.”

Faith broke her silence, sounding troubled for probably more than one reason. “I can run down there and poke my head in,” she offered, if a little reluctantly. “Maybe stay for a while, keep an eye out till shit hits the fan, if it does.” Her dark eyes fell on Buffy, serious and certain. “Bet you could use a presence there, just in case. Keep you with the 411.”

/Wow. Talk about jumping on board with both feet./ “Faith, we would really love it if you would do that.” Buffy put all the warmth she could find into her voice when she said it.

Robin, she noticed, was now staring at Faith as if she, too, had sprouted another head, and turned into some kind of insane traitor.

Faith didn’t appear to notice. Her gaze was turned inward and distant. “Heck.” And she leaned back on her hands. “Just me and the Blue Power Ranger in the hotel, you know? Fancy digs… Keep an eye out to see what the hell Angel’s up to… Help Gunn out whenever he’s around. I’m down with LA.”

“Awesome.” It was a serious relief.

Turning back to the rest, Buffy raised her voice to ensure it was heard by the folks on the phones; most of whom were probably still reeling, since deep inside she was, herself. “Andrew, now’s your turn to update us on this other girl you’re worried about. Uh… Simone? Which… I’m really sorry I don’t remember her. I feel like I should. I must’ve been way busy, or distracted, or…” She shot a glance over toward Rona, a question in her eyes. “Maybe both of you can update us?”

‘Uh, sure,’ Andrew began, sounding all dithery over the phone. ‘Uh, how ‘bout you start, though, Rona, so it’s, you know… chronological?’

Rona leaned forward, as take-charge as ever. “The girl is trouble,” she insisted bluntly. “When she was with my cell in Chicago, she had serious problems with authority…” At Buffy’s amused look, she sighed. “Okay, fine. I get it. It’s probably like that thing your parents tell you, huh? That whole, if you’re trouble as a kid, you’re gonna get the same kinda kid, like some kind of revenge from on high or something. So, fine. I tried to handle it like karma or something. But in the end she just got to be too much for me. She was disrupting the entire cell, and…” She turned fully to Buffy, shrugged on shoulder. “I admit it. I gave up. I’m not proud of it. But I didn’t know what to do with her, and at that time we were kinda all on our own, you know? I didn’t know who to ask, or how to handle her, so I…” She looked down into her hands. “I guess I kinda passed the buck to Andrew. Which is my bad, and I’m sorry, but…”

Wow, Rona had seriously learned to drop the tough-girl act and be humble when necessary. She’d been tempered by the Battle of Sunnydale, and by being a leader. But Buffy had to remember that she was also still young. Like, as young as Buffy herself had been at the beginning of her career. Which, Buffy well-remembered what that had been like, and yeah. It was hard as hell to try to figure out how to lead on the fly like that, when you were still trying to simultaneously figure out who the hell you were yourself, and how to manage your own emotions, and… And it wouldn’t be fair of her to come down too hard on the kid. She was maybe all of sixteen or seventeen, leading a cell of about sixty girls, and damn well doing her best. “I get it, Rona. And we need to be better about working together instead of isolating each cell to deal with their problems on their own. You asked for help. That was the best you had at the time. So it’s all good…” 

Rona was looking at her now with awe, as if she hadn’t expected this kind of clemency from a woman she’d helped to toss out of her own home. Which, fair, but this wasn’t about vengeance. It was about being real. And, all of that was in the past. “Okay, Andrew,” Buffy went on, turning back to the phone. “Tell us what happened once Simone ended up in Italy?”

‘Well, uh… at first she seemed okay. But then she started complaining about us using too many old weapons and stuff. I dunno if you remember, since you were taking so many away-missions at the time. You were barely there; but she was the _signorina_ with the mohawk, who always wanted to use anything that wasn’t medieval, and had issues with…’ A pause. ‘Remember that one day when you were doing calisthenics with the girls in the piazza, and one of ‘em started complaining about using staves, because wouldn’t shooting a gun with wooden bullets be a lot faster and do a lot more damage than a big stick?’

Buffy had a flash of recall, out of nowhere. Fifty girls, all doing burpees, holding their staves, working in perfect, willing unison… except for one mohawked chick with serious attitude, who had broken into the beautiful synchronicity to demand that they do their exercise with AK-47s. Like she’d wanted to be in Marine Corps training or something, instead. “Oh. Right. Her.”

‘Yeah. Her. Well, she never got off the subject. She’s tough, she’s a hell of a fighter, but she’s completely allergic to listening. She chilled out a little after you guys took on the Scourge and started sending out trainers to teach us guns. She really, really got off on that. But she’s been super pissed off that we keep ‘em locked up. She wants to drill with ‘em twenty-four-seven; and Buffy…’ Here Andrew’s voice went shaky, uncertain. ‘I think she’s recruiting. She has at least three, maybe five other girls on her bandwagon with her, all freaking out about gun-training, and how none of what we’re doing is worth anything, and…’

Buffy cut him off before he could really get going. “I think we should pay you a visit, Andrew.” It sounded like this Simone chick was trying to start her own little revolution. And if there was one thing they couldn’t afford right now, it was an Organization-trained rogue Slayer who knew everything about how they worked, from the inside, including the inside scoop on at least two cells, and who had the 411 on how Buffy herself fit in. /Or, at least how I fit in for a while, before I bailed./ 

Turning to Spike, Buffy read his eyes for a sec. He tilted his head in acceptance of the detour; willing as ever to help in any way he could. Nodding back, Buffy returned her gaze to the crowd. “So. Spike and I are gonna hit up Rome, help Andrew with this little rogue-in-process issue. We’ll be in touch,” she went on, her eyes sliding to Wil and Xander. “You two keep on it; find me more girls who might need talking up.” She caught Faith’s eye next. “If you need any help in LA, Faith—with this girl Xander talked about, with the Angel thing, anything—you let us know. We’re on a plane the second you call.”

“Hey.” A slow smile spread over Faith’s lips. “I dig the sisterly solidarity.” 

Buffy returned the smile before spreading a solemn glance over the rest of the crowd, her voice elevated enough that everyone over the phones heard it. “Any other problem spots that come up, let HQ know. Wil and Xan will pass it on if they think it’s something where Spike and I are needed to help put out any fires.” Man, this sucked. She could feel the tension building in the back of her mind, the situation turning toward what Xander had always, back in their Sunnydale days, called ‘red alert status’. 

Rolling her shoulders, she addressed them all equally, and tried for understanding. “We’re all gonna be on double-time for a while, before we get this thing straightened out. But hopefully, if we stay on top of it, we’ll keep the edge over on Harmony’s little PR blowout…” Spike’s hands were on her shoulders, massaging even as she spoke, unerring in his reads of what she needed and when; and god, how had she ever done any of this, before him? “…Maybe even come out looking good to the world, if we do it right.” As she spoke, she tilted her head first to one side, then the other, in unconscious invitation for him to get the knots currently spawning in her neck. He did so with perfect precision that always made her wonder if he could sense them or something. Maybe he could hear the stopped-up blood-flow or some damn thing. “We need to show the world that we’re a part of the system, not some kind of nasty extra thing they’ve never heard of and don’t want to.” As soon as this meeting was over, she was so going to let Spike give her a full-torso rubdown. God. “Because we are a part of this world, and they need to know it. Right?”

It was a challenge. They could meet it or not. /Are you a part of this world you live in daily, or are you holding yourself outside of it? Can you do that, anymore? Are you gonna run?/

Slow nods met her, after a sec, from around the circle; a few reluctant, some dazed… but most of what she saw was agreement, or at least concession. “Good. Adjourned, unless there are questions?” She could really do with that massage, since it was being offered.

No one spoke up. “Cool.” She turned to Robin. “You have anywhere for us to crash, or should we go hit up a motel?”

Robin’s mouth twisted slightly at the corners, but he didn’t let it show in his voice, which had dropped again to neutral. “Upstairs. We keep a few rooms prepped for visiting VIPs. Vi and Rona have one, Willow and Xander have the other one. Courtney’s agreed to bunk with a few of our older girls, so you two can have the third…” He unfolded his legs and rose to his feet. “I’ll show you.” And then he hesitated, and to Buffy’s surprise, turned to Spike, almost sounding like a good host. “You want me to show you where the microwave is, first?”

Spike’s lips twitched just slightly, as if he were secretly amused by the strain his presence put on the man. On the way over, they’d talked about how to handle his meeting Robin again, and Spike had opined, that, _“He hates like hell seeing any Slayer fraternizing with a vampire. Bloke still has mommy issues. All Slayers are his mother, to him. Every one is Nikki, at some point in her life. That you, the toughest of the lot, have decided to take up with a vampire—and even worse, the one who did his mother?—that’s the sodding worst thing ever in his mind.”_

“‘Preciate the courtesy,” he said now, keeping it as bland and even as he’d ever been. “Ate this morning, though.”

Robin merely nodded, before turning without a word to lead the way toward the back stair.

The upstairs was essentially one incredibly long hallway that ran the length of the building, and had doors coming off of it in every direction. A few of the younger Slayer-set poked their heads out when they heard the approaching voices. Some—the better-trained of the bunch, or the more aware—stared variously in amazement or horror as they sensed a vampire on approach, and then either ducked back inside their doorways, or brandished stakes, or visibly panicked, before Robin waved his hand at them, dismissing their concerns with a repeated mantra of, “It’s alright,” or, “Good lookin’ out, Tasha, but it’s cool,” or, “Don’t worry about it, Jill,” or, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Go to sleep,” till eventually the hallway was denuded of stunned Slayer forms.

Spike, who as always amused by the ripples wrought by his presence among the younger set, chuckled as they neared a cluster of five doors at the far end of the corridor. “Still counting on a rematch,” Rona put in as she headed into the room she shared with Vi. “Her first, then me, huh?”

“First thing in the morning,” Spike agreed, and offered a genial nod. As Vi followed Rona in, he grinned at the once-shy girl. “Watch your neck, next time, yeah? Might end up with a big bad stuck there.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Vi answered confidently. “Not this time.” And she gave him a little wave before disappearing through the door.

“Chits are growin’ up,” Spike pointed out easily.

“Yeah, they keep doing that,” Faith put in, and headed for one of the far doors. “It’s fuckin’ weird.” She vanished inside without another word.

/Goodnight?/ Faith was acting… different.

“This is us,” Xan put in cheerily, and slapped Spike on the back as he turned to one of the featureless panels. “Don’t get yourself staked in your sleep, man, with all these all-growed-up girls wandering around everywhere. Oh. And watch out. They took off the signs on the bathrooms. They’re all women’s now. I’d suggest using the stalls.”

Spike stared at Xander, clearly startled by the camaraderie. “I don’t piss unless I’ve tied one on for about three days, remember?” At Xander’s continued, fish-like gaping, “You ought to, since you were the one had to help me to the loo after that first soddin’ bender after Buffy died...”

/Oh, wow…/ Also, who knew that Xander, of all people, would’ve helped Spike do anything, back then?

Xander blinked as he absorbed this, then laughed. “Right. I forgot. Man, I’ve never seen anyone pee so much in my life, too. You must’ve drank, like, fourteen forties before you finally had to pour ‘em back out…”

“Yeah, well, suicide by bottle doesn’t work if you’re a vamp,” Spike answered with a shrug. “Seemed worth a shot about then, though.”

Xander abruptly sobered, squeezed the shoulder he’d slapped. “Yeah, well; glad you didn’t get away with it.” He shook his head as he dropped his hand. “Anyway, I totally forgot you don’t normally pee. You’re just, you know, one of the guys, now.” Shaking his head, he opened his door and started in. “Well, whatever. Watch out when you’re brushing your fangs. Bring Buffy as a bodyguard or something.” And he disappeared within. 

Willow moved to follow him, turned back, made a face. “Do you really brush your fangs at night?”

Spike shot her a smirk. “Thorough hygiene keeps us in good with the ladies,” he pontificated.

“Okay, color me glad I don’t have to watch your guyses bedtime routine. Jeez.” She rolled her eyes and then shot Buffy a _look_. “See you in the morning. I’ll portal everyone around once I get some sleep.”

“Awesome.” 

“Night.”

“Goodnight.” And Wil followed Xander into the room they shared, because they were either just good with being platonic besties and neither of them were remotely threatened by said arrangement… or they occasionally hit it these days for old times’ sake, just to keep each other company, because they’d both lost their loves and were lonely, and Buffy was never, not in any universe going to ask which it was.

Robin gave them a nod as everyone else vanished into their respective quarters. Buffy gave him a little wave and shot him a saccharine sweet smile, aware that time and world-save-age should technically get everyone in the group off the hook for all past misdeeds, the way they all appeared to believe it did for Spike, but… Well. There were some misdeeds that had been directed at her guy that made it a little tough for her to be totally chill with some members of the party. Which, if it didn’t lead to full-on mistrust anymore, did at least push her to do a little reverse needling on Spike’s behalf, in the name of subtle revenge, since he was too much the bigger man these days to bother. “Where’s Faith staying?” she called after Nikki Wood’s retreating son. Mostly just to screw with him, since she was pretty sure she knew the answer to that question.

A familiar voice, though, responded on his behalf, as Faith sauntered back out of the doorway she’d entered a moment ago. “He knows when I’m here he better keep the door unlocked, is all I’m saying.” And she nodded at Spike, who was waiting behind Buffy in their borrowed doorway. “No one’s in the bathroom right now, Blondie, if you wanna go do your beauty regimen without a bunch of squirts watching.” And she lifted inviting brows at Robin. “You done tucking in the babies yet, or am I on my lonesome for a little longer?”

Robin’s answer was bland and uninflected by anything but maybe the faintest hint of fond amusement. “They’re all good.”

/Well, that answers that question./ Faith and Robin Wood still had an on-again, off-again Thing. Probably they had a standing arrangement they just picked up whenever she was in town, which… More power to them, if it worked. 

“Thanks for the tip,” Spike answered Faith’s words, and twiddled his fingers thoughtfully against the doorjamb. “Probably finish my smoke, first.”

Faith tilted her head slightly, as if that idea deserved due consideration. “Sounds like a good idea. Maybe I’ll have one too…”

“If either of you smoke, do it outside.” Leaving his ultimatum behind to hang in the air, Robin headed into what was presumably his bedroom and shut the door, acting a little grumpy about all the camaraderie going on in his hallways. 

Well-used to the Spike-and-Faith-show, Buffy glanced back at her guy. “Make it quick if you’re gonna. I want the rest of my massage.”

“Right.”

Grabbing her toiletries bag from the larger duffel that had been carried up here for them by some anonymous member of the Slayer public, Buffy headed for the bathroom and left them to it. “Night, Faith,” she called as she passed.

“Cya on the flipside, B.” 

By the time Buffy was done with her evening regimen, Spike and Faith were back upstairs, laughing about something or other as they parted ways in the hall. Buffy tossed Spike the small bag. He caught it and vanished briefly into the bathroom to fang out and brush, while Faith, with raised brows, asked, “You ever watch him?”

“We’ve lived together for over a year, we had something that could be loosely defined as a relationship on and off for almost five months before that; and shared a house for months in between. What do you think?”

Faith considered this answer, nodded. “Just wondered what it looked like. Like, does he brush one set and then the other, or…”

“Basically.”

“Bet that looks… kinda wicked cool, actually,” she allowed.

Buffy smiled as she watched her guy exit the unmarked bathroom to approach, bag in hand. That had been a pretty abbreviated toilette, but she’d take it. She really wanted that massage. “He knows he’d better be all minty-fresh if he wants to get those fangs anywhere near me…”

Spike caught her around the waist with his free hand, swinging her around, and bumped her companionably in the ass with his hips. “Got to keep the tackle in respectable condition to service the ladies…”

“Excuse me? _Ladies?_ ”

“Lady. One. Full stop.”

“Good save.” Grinning, Buffy allowed him to nudge her through the door. “Night, Faith.”

“Have fun! Night, Blondie. Thanks for the smoke.”

“Have fun puttin’ the lad through his paces.” Spike pulled the door to behind him, and they were alone in the room on loan to them. 

Luckily, with Faith on hand, Robin would be nicely distracted, and less willing to get all up in their business. Thank goodness. 

Buffy immediately leaned back into the receptive power of her vampire’s long, solid body, and sighed as she let the tension of the day leach from her muscles. They could use the quiet to reset themselves, before heading back to freaking Rome, of all cities, to deal with this baby Slayer with authority issues who sounded like she was about to pop. /Ugh. Of all things I don’t wanna deal with right now./ Not that she didn’t get why it could happen. Being a teenage Slayer, with all the pressure that came with… /And no outlets. Not really. For most of them, anyway. Which is a real problem, these days, for hundreds of girls. It’s a pressure-cooker. All those hormones, all this violence, and sparring, and nothing they can do about it afterward. And we’re telling them to kill less often, and if they’re not bi, then what are they supposed to _do_ with all that?/

Rub a few issues into the mix—say, some kind of previous abuse or whatever—and who didn’t have issues? And you had the recipe for disaster. Honestly, it was amazing they didn’t have more girls flying off the handle by now. /My fancy new handbook probably caused more problems than it solved. Man, this is like this huge, un-fixable problem, isn’t it?/

The tiny toiletries bag flew through the air, tossed to land with perfect precision atop the open duffel over there on the armchair, and Spike’s hands rose to her shoulders once more. He kissed the side of her neck, started to knead as he nudged again, leading her over toward the bed. 

“What are we gonna do?” she asked her mate, and halted by the window. The utilitarian blinds were open, leaving the window staring blindly out into the formless, empty alley below. The faint blur of the distant streetlights told her they would need to close the thing before they settled in, if she wanted to wake up to a vampire and not a pile of very loving dust.

As she reached out to turn the deal, he kissed the other side of her neck, wrapped his arms around her waist from behind… and set his chin into the meat of her shoulder where the worst knot was. Nuzzled a little, dug in. God, that felt good. And he smelled damn good right now; like fresh tobacco and leather and the night, and just a hint of minty freshness. “We take it one day at a time,” he answered quietly. “One girl at a time… until we figure out a solution, innit?”

The blinds closed, she dropped her hands so that he could really get into the knot, and heaved a sigh. /Worst possible time, for all of this. What did I do, when I woke all these girls up? What did I do to the world?/

Six million vampires. A few hundred thousand bad ones. A couple hundred thousand or so other types of demons who might get all rowdy and cause a problem, out of hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of demons who were just trying to get along.

And a couple hundred Slayers. Predators for the predators. Everything reducing down by tens; again and again and again…

Numbers swirled in her head; a complex math problem she could not remotely figure out, because the equation couldn’t settle in her mind. There was killing, and there was possible mating—for her kind, and for his, and for the rest—and there was the potential for both sides to go rogue. And now there was the sudden, new danger of the whole damned thing going up in flames, on freaking _video_ , for the all the _world_ to see, and…

Spike exhaled heavily next to her ear, as if her very vibe was exasperating him. “C’mere, Love. Let me hold you. I’ll rub out the knots the troubles have put into you, till you can forget the day. And tomorrow, we can face it all fresh.”

Pivoting with him, she sought the one flat surface. She should probably try to shower off the grimy feeling travel always put on her skin before turning in, but she just really didn’t feel like going back to brave another stab at the big communal bathroom. Heck, as she’d left earlier, a gaggle of teens had come in, and… 

She had made her escape this time, but going back in there would necessitate actual conversation with the children, who would no doubt demand to know who the vampire was, what was going on, what they were going to do about the other vampire; the one on the radio telling the whole world about everything, and…

She should write out some thoughts before sleeping. Come up with a solid plan. 

She should do a whole lot of things, but…

“Leave it for a bit,” he counseled her, a bit of frustration leaking out of his voice now, to remonstrate with her. “Just go still, Buffy, for chrissake, before you burst. Let me hold it for you, for a time. It’s why I’m here.”

It was. Which was why, in the end, she let him guide her toward the—very hard, rather small—full-size bed, lay her down on her face. Bestride her, he settled into a slow, familiar working-over of her neck, her shoulders, till she was melting into the uncomfortable surface, and… “What did I ever do before you?” she asked, slurred and unwilling ever to move again.

“Well, you were a bit of a bitch,” he allowed, and she heard the grin in his voice as he said it.

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Sorry. It’s my default setting.” His hands never ceased their attentions.

“I love you.”

“I know it, pet.” He was doing those wonderful, long sweeps now, down either side of her spine, and… “We’ll figure it, you know. We’ve been in worse positions. It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.” /The whole world knows about us, now. We’ve never been here. How can this ever be ‘fine’?/

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
(quote by Audre Lorde)  
  
In the comics, Soledad's and Simone Doffler's storylines were part of a huge, godawful plan by Twilight to expose the Slayers and make them look bad to the world. The former girl ended up swiftly dead, fodder for a storyline that killed her so fast she didn't even get a NAME till later (don't get me started on not bothering to name the swiftly-dead POC character. She deserved better!)... The latter girl ended up being a problem for a lot longer; but not here, kthanx. We're gonna nip that whole saga in the bud with some good personnel management, thank you very much, done by a Buffy who's a lot more able to work with people, because she's a lot more emotionally healthy and capable of recognizing past faults and current gaps to plug, etc, because she's not doing EVERYTHING on her own and having to be ten thousand places at once. Because the people who wrote the damn comics never gave her a single moment's rest, much less time to heal and contemplate her life or think about anything or review a single friggin thing, because they were asshats, and thought that constant motion and endless, buffeting action were far more interesting than character development, till, like, late Season 10 thru Season 11 or some damn thing, so she just kept regressing, and falling into stupid, brainless traps, like hitting on Xander, and sleeping with Satsu (ie totally using someone who was in love with her, all over again), and then boinking Angel under a spell, because she was exhausted and had no capacity to remotely grow, much less rest or think about ANYTHING, and had no one to really help her, and ARGH.  
  
I'm not bitter. Obviously.  
  
  



	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologize in advance if my updating is spotty in future; been dealing with some computer woes. They've set me back a bit...
> 
> Anyway, as far as story goes... Take a deep breath everyone. It's the last one you'll get before the biiig plunge.

  
“A ship is always safe at shore. But that is not what it is built for.” 

* * *

Spike had his tussle with Vi and Rona before they left Cleveland. He won, of course, thereby badly bruising two Slayerly egos… but the two girls acquitted themselves well. Very well indeed, actually, compared to their first outing against the Big Bad. 

They got it out of the way before too many of the children drifted down to watch, which was good since it was probably better that a minimum of younger Slayers witness two cell leaders get their asses handed to them by a vampire; even if that vampire was a Master. 

To show them that he wasn’t unbeatable, Spike and Buffy went at it afterward. Which was fun as it always was. A nice, relaxing way to throw off the freaked-out vibe that had been haunting her ever since the paparazzi had shown up to descend on their position at the mouth of that alley with Harmony and her idiot comedian. 

It was so damn good to be able to just act, and not-think for a change. That was what Spike was for her. He was her instinct gear, embodied. He felt exactly right. When they moved together, nothing could ever possibly be wrong.

After they’d thrown each other around for a while, and she’d had him and he’d had her and they’d landed on an even draw, Spike tussled a little with Faith. Just to round things out, of course, the two of them grinning like loons and spitting a bunch of trash-talk the entire time. Spike might’ve edged that one out by a hair, but it was tough to tell. Faith was damn good by now… but Spike was used to fighting Buffy on the daily, anymore; and on top of that he was living off of a pretty standard Slayer-blood-high, so… 

No matter which way you sliced it, he was not your standard vampire. 

Buffy noticed, as the Cleveland cell’s complement slowly accumulated to watch the disciplined brawl, that its leader never once volunteered to try to take Spike on. It seemed that Robin was in no way interested in a rematch of his own.

“Right, then,” Spike eventually said, stepping back, and thumbed a trickle of blood from his lower lip. He was grinning broadly. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Faith answered, bosoms heaving. “That was sweet. Thanks, Blondie.”

“No charge. See you next time.”

“Yeah. You bet.” Her eyes flickered over to Buffy, sobering. “Keep an eye on him.”

“I always do.”

Her eyes slid back to Spike’s, still and serious. “And you, keep an eye on her.”

“Never stopped. Never will.”

“All I ask.” With a nod, she stepped off the training mat. “Alright, Willow. Got my bags packed. I’m ready when you are.” And she leaned over to pick up a small, black backpack. Turned to Robin. “See you next time I’m in town, Mr. Surprising.”

Robin smiled a funny little smile at that, which, what? “I’ll be here.”

“Good thing.” She nodded at Wil. “Alright.”

“Okay,” Wil agreed, and started the portal spell.

They all went quickly after that, one after another. Since Wil and Xander had to go last, Buffy made their farewells for both herself and Spike with a smile and a nod for Robin. “Thanks for your hospitality, and for letting us use your place for a meeting zone.”

“My pleasure.” He nodded in that reserved way of his, then seemed to hesitate, his eyes flickering briefly over to Spike and back. “It was good to see you again, Buffy.”

/As in, even if I had to put up with having ‘him’ around, huh?/ “Yeah, we’ll have to catch up again sometime when it’s not life or death.” As she said it, she knew it would never happen. Not as long as she was with Spike. Which was never going to change, so… “Take care of yourself, Robin.” And they stepped into the portal to in Rome.

“Ah, Buffy, _bellisima!_ And Spike, _mio amico!_ Welcome, welcome! _Benvenuti a Roma!”*_ As always, Andrew was his over-the-top self before they’d even stepped through. And, he was hugging Spike like he hadn’t seen the guy in a hundred years, because give him the chance to do so, and he’d take it. And then some. 

Also, it looked like he kind of had his hands on Spike’s butt.

/Welcome back to that Slayer life/ Buffy thought as the portal closed behind them.

***

Simone Doffler wasn’t exactly what Buffy was expecting. And… in a way, she was, in that she was angry, and frustrated, and spoiling for trouble; basically what a lot of young Slayers tended to be. Filled to the brim with urges she couldn’t contain—which, unfortunately, had no outlets right now, Rome being what it was. /Too many politics in this town, too many toes to step on./ As far as cells, this one was probably the worst one for her. And, obviously, there was no one around for her to bang to get her aggressions out, except for other Slayers. Which… 

Well, that might actually work for this one. Not that Buffy was the best judge. She’d have to ask Spike his read on that much. But as to the rest… If she was a guy, Buffy would have classified her as ‘young, dumb, and full of cum’. /What’s the female equivalent of that saying?/

Actually, Simone reminded her a lot of a young and stir-crazy Faith. Which actually gave Buffy a lot of inspiration for exactly how she should deal with the girl, given that they didn’t exactly have a lot of options right now for outlets for the girl’s frustrations, aside from workouts and constructive, very directed killing. 

“What do you think?” she whispered in an aside to her vampire, after their first introduction to the current cell. They hadn’t had a one-on-one with the girl yet, since their current strategy was to act like this was a standard review. The girls were still all lined up and murmuring amongst themselves about the ‘tame vampire’, and whether he was the one who’d helped with the Scourge fight, and were thus thoroughly distracted. It helped with their being able to sort of clandestinely assess this Simone and her little knot of compatriots, currently huddled off to the left, without letting them know they were under review. To watch them acting naturally, which... 

“She’s an angry one,” Spike responded from the side of his mouth, and obscured his answer by lifting a cigarette to his lips. “Impotent, right now. She’s gettin’ laid, so that’s out for fixin’ the problem…”

/Well, at least I’m getting better at reading that portion of festivities…/ 

“Gotta get her out of this city, though. It’s too tame for the likes of her.”

“Yeah.” Buffy made a face as she considered it. “Maybe put her up at the HQ? Not a ton of action there, but at least there’re less reprisals in Scotland when you do do something stupid. And I think Xander might be able to distract her by making her a gun-drill leader or something like that…”

Spike lifted and dropped a shoulder. He looked tired, to her eyes, or at least existentially weary, which was its own thing. “Yeah. And Willow’d be able to bind her with magicks if she went off half-cocked.” He lowered his cigarette and squinted across the courtyard. “Good a solution as any. At least for the time being. Question is, which of the rest ought to go with her, there? Or should we brass her off by splittin’ up the group, send ‘em all off to separate cells, to be rehabbed all over the bloody place?”

Buffy frowned pensively at that. They might risk spreading a virus of ideas if they did so; a pandemic of rogue mentality throughout all the cells. Was it best to contain them, but under watch, there at the Glasgow headquarters, or to break up the party and keep an eye on it from different vantages? “Guess we should interview her first.”

 _“You_ should, Love,” Spike answered with a tiny tilt of his head. “Doubt she’d be anything more than belligerent, with me about.”

He had a point. Not that the girl might be any less so, with her present. “What about you?”

He shot her a mischievous look and tapped his tongue to the back of his teeth—or, rather, as she had since come to learn, fondled the scenting glands that lay there, where his fangs would descend should he so choose—as he considered his options. “Do a little sparring with the children, you think? Suss out their moods that way. Try to engage the mutinous ones. See if I can figure, are they just frustrated, or is there more to it?”

It’d be a straightforward way to figure out whether Doffler’s followers were being recruited and manipulated out of sheer dissatisfaction, or whether they had serious axes to grind with the Organization. “You’re awesome and I love you.”

“Butterin’ me up, I see…” With a grin and a little extra tongue-curling action, her vampire set out to face the ranks of anxious-looking girls. “Right.” And he challenged them all with a brisk, confident nod. “Who wants a fight, then?”

Buffy noticed that Simone’s little gaggle were among the first to jerk up and stare at him hungrily. Doffler herself was the very first to step forward. “I’ll kick your ass, vamp. I don’t care who you’re with.”

“Well…” Spike drawled, and tossed down his smoke onto the tile floor of the wide atrium. The late afternoon light, shining now only on the back wall of the courtyard, made the shadows dance around the glowing ember as he extinguished the butt with his boot. “Guess we’ll see what you’ve got, then.” And, hands held at the ready, he crouched.

After Spike put Doffler on her ass and moved on to the next of her cronies, a chastened, mohawked girl headed into the small office Andrew used, off to one side of the atrium, to meet with the other member of their duo. “Hey,” Buffy greeted her as she entered. 

“Uhuh,” the girl answered, brittle and terse. Clearly she was either very sore over the outcome of her tussle with Spike, or this was just how she rolled in general. Pissed off and with something to prove.

Till she learned otherwise, Buffy was gonna stick with the latter assumption. It was the safest.

She’d studied the background they had on this girl before they’d headed over; everything Rona could give them. It wasn’t much, since she hadn’t exactly been talkative. Though to be fair, the remains of the Council did give them something on every girl. The Council had been effectively rendered obsolete by The First’s attack on its nerve center, sure, but there were survivors all over the world, both submerged in the population keeping an eye on Potentials, and in little wetworks cells. What had been destroyed was the larger part of the ancient central library, since the Council had staunchly refused to go digital until just prior to the attack. Dopes. They had just barely begun to scan things to a closed database, but they’d had so much damned stuff in their library that the scanning task would have taken years, so most had been lost in the bombing. They’d had some stuff on microfiche as well, but that had also been lost… and since the database itself had been on local servers… 

Well, per Willow, their own closemindedness had been their undoing. And, most of the higher-up (and thus, the most knowledgeable personnel) had been there, called in for an emergency meeting because of the Bringer attacks, so a large majority of their command-number had been lost. Pretty much everyone who hadn’t been actively assigned to a Potential or some task somewhere, really. 

Including, of course, everyone who had been in the know about the Council’s more esoteric inner secrets. And they’d taken with them all of their locked-away, hidden lore—stuff like that shadow-play deal that Nikki Wood’s Watcher had snuck out of there to let his ward know about her own origins, since no doubt that kind of knowledge wasn’t the sort of thing most Watchers were supposed to have given to their Slayers. That was the sort of thing that only the higher-ups knew. Thus, all of their knowledge about Sineya, the secrets and origins of the Line—probably stuff about those Guardians, how Sineya had died, how long she had lived before she’d taken out the last Old Ones; all of that—had died with them. Probably also a bunch of hardcore spells and magickal items and the like, as well, per Giles. 

They’d for sure taken all the access codes to their bank accounts with them, the jerks.

The attack had been a massive blow, for sure... but there had been enough remains of the Council scattered about the world, enough field agents, along with the contents of their personal, tiny, Watcherly libraries, that Buffy and the Organization still had a legacy to deal with. They had information on each Potential—on their backgrounds, their upbringing, all that—along with the kind of propaganda Buffy had dedicated herself to fight. It was a tough campaign, fighting these guys to figure out which information to keep and what to jettison. Unhelpful, as well, since the Council’s wealth was still, as Spike put it, ‘bunged away’ in Swiss bank accounts where it didn’t help them at all, since no one but the now-deceased Quentin Travers and a few of his lieutenants could have accessed it. No one as far down the line as Giles knew that kind of sensitive information.

People like Riley had gotten all over her for robbing banks to finance her girls, but technically, that money was Slayer money. They’d just had to rob some of the most famous banks in the world to get to it.

Anyway, they had enough information on Simone Doffler to know that she’d been an army brat. That she’d been raised in an authoritarian home before being taken in as a Potential. That she’d had a troubled childhood; that her father had been somewhat abusive, and that she’d reacted, in middle and early high school, with increasing bouts of antisocial behavior. ‘Acting out’, the file had called it. 

And, Simone was familiar with the use of firearms, military terminology and discipline, and had been raised by someone who was a bit of a prepper. When that kind of thing happened for a standard kid, they could get dangerous enough as they reached their majority. When it happened to a Slayer…

Buffy pondered her approach as she eyed the girl. She knew from troubled, of course, so there was that to navigate. Daddy issues, anger, the need to prove herself… /But, like all of us, she has the need to lead. And, now, with so many Slayers around, and her having been raised in an environment where she had to excel at all costs or be punished…/

So, this one had to be a leader even more so than the standard Slayer. It was an identity thing. Spike had told her on the way over that a girl like this would assert herself because if she didn’t, it meant punishment, or being subsumed by another. _“Kowtowing to authority, for a chit like this one, means returning to a helpless child-state. Gotta give her a crumb, pet. Work with her ego, or she’ll crumble; and she can’t afford to crumble. Give her some rope, and she might even go far, if I know Slayers.”_

And he did. If there was one thing her guy knew... /So, alright. Here goes./ “Simone. I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you before I left this cell. But I’m glad I’m meeting you now, since both Rona and Andrew tell me you’re a natural leader…” 

Simone’s head jerked up at this, her eyes widening from sullen to surprised. And then, out of nowhere, she began to preen. “I got a few girls who listen to me,” she admitted, and leaned back in her chair, her body language abruptly open and confident.

/Right way to go. Thank you, Spike./ Buffy leaned forward, into the opening. “Here’s the deal. I don’t think this cell is the right place for you. I think we need you at HQ. Because… Let me tell you something not everyone knows. Some stuff’s going down that’s about to put the Organization in danger. Which means I need girls who are leadership material on our side, not getting frustrated kicking their heels, you know what I mean?”

Simone frowned at this. “Someone’s coming at us?”

“Yeah,” Buffy answered flatly. “Right now, you’re irritated at being held down. I’m gonna tell you straight up; we don’t need you dragging Andrew down from the inside. He has a hard enough time dealing with egos as it is…”

Simone lifted and dropped one shoulder, dismissing Andrew. “He’s a showboat. He can’t take the pressure.”

Buffy didn’t qualify that. “Everyone has their strengths. Andrew’s is… instructional.” /And, enough of the negativity. This is about you, Simone./ “I hear you’re good at organizing. Also, I hear you have a background in firearms and in survivalist stuff…”

“Grew up an army brat, yeah.” Simone had gone wary again.

“Right,” Buffy agreed, keeping things even. Not approving, but not disapproving, either. “So here’s what I think. Up at the HQ, they drill twice a day with the guns. Your familiarity with firearms means maybe you can be a drill instructor…”

Simone’s eyes lit up. “I could do that.”

“We’d need you to respect chain of command, of course. I know you understand chain of command…”

She frowned fitfully. “Not everyone deserves…”

Buffy held up a hand. /Don’t lose her now./ “Let me be blunt. We all have to work our way up. We all have to earn our way. This is a big organization. You don’t get to step right to the top, no matter what your background, till you show us what you’ve got. I see your potential, and I want to give you that opportunity; to show us what you got. Frankly, I think you’re a wasted asset here, in Rome. I want to give you that chance, by moving you up to the center of the action. So I’m proposing you get to be a drill instructor up at headquarters, to see if you can clean up some of the firearms practice up there. Maybe if they think you’re up to it, you can start leading patrols. And if, after that, you show good leadership potential, you’ll move up even faster, you get my drift? A quicker path to the top than just sitting here all frustrated in such a quiet city…”

Simone eyed her for a sec, then nodded briskly. “I get it. I appreciate the chance to move up. And yeah. I get chain of command. And I do wanna prove that I’ve got what it takes to lead.”

Buffy saw it then. That thirst to prove herself. If she threw the girl a bone right now, it might just solidify things. /And, it might save us the headache./ “Show me right now, you have the chops. You have a few girls right now who think of you as a leader. They’ll take direction from you; and you know ‘em in a way we don’t. So tell me; how do we solve our personnel crisis? Because, now I’ve let you in on an issue that they don’t know is upcoming, we need to nip any problems in the bud. You know what we do; that we’re gonna be under assault soon. We don’t need any egos right now. So I need your professional assessment.” /Fluff her, give her a puzzle to solve; play to her strengths, perceived and real. Keep her invested./ “You’ve been reassigned according to your skills. I’m letting you decide how to assign the girls who look to you. We can either leave them all here under Andrew, in order to contain their egos in one spot… Or, if you think they’ll be too much for him to handle, we can send them with you to HQ and you can help those guys up there assign them, like you, to various posts where they can learn to use their skills…” She tried a thoughtful look. “Or, we can separate them into various other cells, so they can prove themselves that way. The only issue I see with the last one is, will they resent the reassignment-with-separation, and cause problems in their new cells? Because right now we can’t absorb that kind of internal strife. Not when we’re on the eve of attack from the outside.”

She saw when she had Simone; saw it in the way the girl leaned back and seriously considered the personnel issue from the standpoint of Buffy’s having assigned the girls as hers to disperse. She even tapped her fingers together thoughtfully. “Let me talk ‘em down,” the girl answered finally. “I’ll tell ‘em to take it down a notch, that now’s not the time to ruffle feathers. I’ll let ‘em know I’ve got this. Then, before I go with you, we send ‘em to other cells. I’ll keep just one with me. Her name’s Jayna. She’s too on fire to drop it. If she comes with me, she’ll be of use to you guys up at the HQ. The rest’ll chill okay in other cells as long as you give ‘em a lot to do.” Fierce eyes touched Buffy’s, unsettlingly awash with urges unspent. “This place is just too dullsville, you get me? We need stuff to _do_.” 

“I get it,” Buffy answered, and leaned forward once more to catch Doffler’s eye. She spoke very seriously. “The main thing right now is, the threat, from the outside? It’s trying to turn the demon world against us, and the _human_ world…”

The girl’s eyes widened in amazement. Buffy didn’t let her get a word in edgewise. “You heard about the thing with the vampire…”

Simone’s expression swung from shock to disgust. “Yeah,” she spat. “What the hell? Now, all the sudden, vamps are, like, ‘out’? And we’re the bad guys for dusting ‘em?”

/Reel her in. Keep her on track./ “That’s the thing. We need to make sure no one thinks we’re doing it unless it’s deserved; to any demon. Because you and I both know, we have demon-urges in us too, or we wouldn’t need to kill…”

Doffler stared at her for a sec, then leaned back and grinned broadly. “Tell me about it.”

At least there wouldn’t be a fight there. “Right. So, here’s the thing. We have to pick the right fights. I’m not against you getting your aggro out. That’s just real. Just… pick the right fights when you lead a team. We’re on camera right now, and the last thing we need out there is some asshat telling the world that we’re a bunch of haters trying to make things hard on poor, inoffensive demons just trying to get by…”

Simone snorted hard. “Seriously?”

“That’s where we’re at.”

“Wow.”

“We’re in a public opinion war, Simone,” Buffy informed the girl curtly. “I’m being real with you. As a leader, you need to know when to use a big stick, and when to be subtle. Right now is subtlety time. You may not respect Andrew. You may think he holds back too much, but there are reasons, and now you know ‘em. There were orders behind a lot of it. Right now, we need to come out smelling like roses, and that means playing politics…”

“Oh, shit.” Simone abruptly looked stumped at being thrown into a ‘leader role’ during a time of heavy political fallout.

Buffy nodded at her clear and sudden overwhelm. “You sure you wanna be in the leadership program right now, with everything that’s going down? I still think you’re a good candidate…” Might as well rub just a little more sauce on the girl’s ego, keep her hooked. “…But I can leave you here if you’re not into this, right now, and you can jump back into the program later...”

“No!” The girl was half on her feet now. Slowly, she subsided back into her chair, looking a little wild-eyed at the thought of losing her ‘chance at greatness’. “No,” she went on in a somewhat softer voice. “I’m ready. I swear. I wanna do this. I’ll… try to remember that we’re doing the PR thing. I get it. Don’t be trigger-happy. Humans know about us now, we gotta play it cool till this thing blows over…”

/Well, more like forevermore, but whatever./ “It’s a thing. Glad you can see the fine print.” Buffy nodded decisively. “I can see you have the makings of a leader, Simone,” she continued, and dropped a hand to tap her fingers on Andrew’s very orderly desk. “My only concern, honestly, for you as a leader-in-training, is your temper. But to be fair,” she went on when the girl’s face darkened slightly, “I had self-control and temper issues myself at your age, and life has a tendency to work those out for us as we go… so I’m willing to give you this shot, because I think you have what it takes.” Rising abruptly, so that Simone did so as well, clumsily following her lead, she held out a hand. “Prove me right, Simone. Show me you’re who I think you are.” Time to be straight-up and in-your-face with this girl, and put it all out there. “Because we need leaders, not mutineers, in this organization. We _need_ you right now.” Yes, she was manipulating this girl… but in doing so, she might just save her. Maybe even save them all.

Simone stared at her hand for a moment, then, slowly, she seemed to take on an internal glow. And when she held out her own hand, grabbing Buffy’s, she seemed resolute. She returned Buffy’s grip tightly, pumped her hand once, hard, her face now bright from cheeks to mohawked head as her plans for mutiny faded in the face of a new option. “I won’t let you down,” Simone breathed, and she seemed lit from within with new purpose. “You’ve got me.”

Buffy nodded as she dropped her hand back to her side. “I appreciate that. Because I think we really do need girls like you, Simone. We need your knowledge, your background, your fire. Don’t lose it; use it. Use it to _better_ us. Don’t take it away. Use it to help other girls in this organization. Use it against our _enemies_ , not to help them to tear us apart.” She smiled then, gave a nod. “I promise you; us older Slayers? We’ve been through some of the things you’re going through, too. We’re always available if you need to vent, or you’re having issues with how to lead; or even if your instincts are just going haywire and you don’t know how to negotiate things. Ask Wil or Xander to get in touch with either of us, anytime. Me, Faith… we’ve got you. We want to nurture your talent, alright?” Honestly, she was being real about that. It was either salvage this girl or lose her… and she’d seen that enough with Faith. /Don’t lose another one. Save her, now, before it’s too late./ 

Everyone had a skill, a strength. It could just as easily be turned into their weakness… but only if you ignored them, let them falter and fall away. 

This girl? Would only fail if they let her slip through their fingers.

Simone was staring at her now as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. All her previous hard anger had faded into surprise, even maybe something like amazed relief… because no matter how frustrated she was, she wanted this chance, and she was still open enough to take it. She hadn’t hardened completely. “I’m down. I’m ready. When are we leaving?”

/Thank goodness we got here in time./ “No time to waste. We need to jump on this now, right?” Buffy pointed at the door with her chin. “Pack your bags, and inform this Jayna of what’s up. Oh, and tell the rest of your girls about their upcoming change in orders, so they’ll know to follow without getting pissed off, will you? Then meet us in the atrium in a half-hour. We’ll dial Willow and get you portaled to the castle, get you set up and get you in the rotation there ASAP.”

Simone straightened into something that almost looked like a military bearing. “Yes ma’am. And… Buffy?”

“Yeah?”

Everything that looked like irritation faded from her eyes and expression, replaced with excitement, maybe even relief. “Thank you for this opportunity. I… I won’t let you down.”

Buffy nodded. “I know you won’t, Simone.”

Turning on her heel, the troubled girl marched out of the room, ready to do herself proud.

The minute she was gone, Buffy dropped back to the chair and exhaled hard, shaking a little. /Damn./

Spike came in immediately after the girl left, walked around behind the seat, and set to massaging her shoulders. “That was masterful, pet.”

Buffy closed her eyes. “I hope it works.”

“Oh, it’ll work, luv. You got her hook, line, and sinker.”

She prayed it would. They already had an out vampire telling the world about every damn thing. The last thing they needed in the Slayer ranks right now was open rebellion, on top of everything else.

***

They got Simone installed at the castle, had her meet up with Xan and Wil, who of course played right into the agreed-upon mind-game. Xander praised her gun-knowledge right off the bat, after taking her to their small, in-courtyard shooting range. “Man, we’ll be glad to have you. You’re not only above-army-accurate, but you can strip-clean and reassemble in a timely manner…”

“My dad taught me guns when I was five,” Simone answered easily. “I could field-strip a semi by the time I was seven.”

/Okay, ew./ That was a world Buffy knew nothing about, but it sure explained why this girl had been so let-down by their ‘medieval’ approach to combat. 

“I was thinking; why don’t we try to develop something like in that _Underworld_ movie; you know, where you shoot liquid sunlight…”

Willow frowned. “That was based on some really sketchy, fake science. I suppose I could magick something…”

“We should totally look into that, don’t you think?”

“It would be mega unstable, though,” Wil finished, still frowning.

“Or, even shooting wooden stakes…”

“Well… we _have_ that,” Xander put in, sounding a little amused by this point. “That’s basically what a crossbow is, right?”  
  
“But it’s not a repeater,” Simone insisted. “They take way too long to load…”

She was definitely idea-girl. “You’ve got some good points,” Buffy jumped in, trying to reduce the sting. “We should probably shelve anything but really theoretical R&D right now, though, considering the Big Vampire Reveal…” Using an upward lilt to that last, the reminder was plain.

Simone sighed, deflated a little as the excitement of a possibly sympathetic audience fled in the face of necessity. “Oh, yeah. I forgot. Damn, that sucks.”

“Not saying you shouldn’t tinker with ideas,” Buffy went on, because no reason to stifle the girl and make her all pissy again right off the bat. “I like that you’re a thinker. Though… don’t forget that vamps aren’t the only thing we hunt.” She leaned back, arms crossed. “Actually, when you think about it, our biggest game is probably going to evolve more toward the big baby-eaters as we go on, now that Spike and I have successfully moved toward peace with a lot of the larger vamp-nests. Unless you’re on a hellmouth or a really big city where there’s opportunity for tussles with bad-mannered lone-wolf vamps and packs of untrained fledges, most Slayers won’t be confronted with more than one vamp at a time. That makes the stake still the go-to.” She ignored Simone’s dramatic eye-roll to continue blandly, “Whereas if you’re gonna go in against some big-momma snake-monster…”

“Vaithainian,” Spike put in helpfully.

“Yeah. That. Or an ear-monster…”

“A what?” Simone asked, skipping over offended now, in favor of thrown.

“Long story,” Xander answered, clearly amused. 

“Yeah, there was this whole thing with tongues…” Willow waved a hand. “And not in the fun way.”

“Okay, ugh.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Buffy went on. “Anyway, designing something unique for each encounter might be the order of the day.” She caught their new journeywoman’s eye, held it. “Adaptability over berserker rage or brute strength.”

Simone frowned and nodded slowly. “Maybe a Swiss army weapon…” she murmured.

/Oh well; at least she’s still willing to listen and back down off of ideas that aren’t the best…/

It was better than nothing. 

“So, hey,” Xander put in into the resulting silence, “there’s this guy visiting here who says he knows you two. Says he met you in LA during that whole ‘in another dimension’ thing. He came here to find you and hang out about a week ago. We told him we’d put you in touch, but then everything hit the fan, and…”

“Okay?” Buffy was having a hard time imagining just who out of the Hell-A ensemble might have come up here to meet up. Most of their compatriots from that time-period were either female, enemies, still in LA, or with them in Almerimar. “Who is…”

“Champion Buffy! Lord Spike! It is very good to see you again! I was sad that I did not get the chance to meet with you once more when the hell-dimension returned us home; and both Cordelias have missed you! Spike, my dragon in particular says she would like to give you a fine ride…”

Laughing, overwhelmed with an unexpected wash of relief, Buffy broke into a flat run to give Groosalugg a hug. A whole, un-squished, too-wide-smiling, _living_ Groosalugg. _God_ , that was good; to be enveloped by same, and to know—really _know_ —that he’d made it.

And then Spike was slapping him on the back and shaking his… Well, not his hand but his arm, in some kind of weird, comradely grip, and Wil and Xander were staring in amazement at the unexpectedly warm welcome, and Simone was blinking at the sudden change in tone to the meeting. And Groo was laughing as well, and they were all talking at once, trying to catch up; and he was telling them that both Cordy the dragon and Cordy the pegasus were parked out in the courtyard, the latter using Dawn’s old stable to rest. Apparently he had flown all the way there from where he’d been living in the East Hills of LA, using the two as constant remounts. 

What followed was a highly animated description of some kind of incredibly long relay-flight over the Pacific, in which he had only touched ground a few times, here and there, by night, on some of the random little islets scattered around the ocean. After which, apparently, there had been a saga of (wildly-descriptive) continent-hopping, till they’d made it to the UK, and, “This world is broad and lovely, and I have seen much of it. It is no Pylea, but it is indeed fine, and I am glad to have seen it from the backs of my fine friends.” 

It was definitely catching-up time.

***

Faith had apparently made successful contact with this girl Soledad in LA, so that was handled, at least currently. ‘Yeah, she’s had it rough. Street girl, you know? She’d been in some kind of girl-gang called Las Cuchillas, and just got jumped out, so when Xander tried to call her to tell her about the Slayer thing, she got confused and thought they were trying to get her into another girl-gang, and that she’d be stuck in the same damn sitch all over again, so it makes sense that she’d be scared off, you know? But I got her straightened out. She wasn’t sure about the whole thing at first, but after I talked us up for a few days, I convinced her to give Robin’s bunch a try…’

Buffy was surprised at that. “Not Rona’s?”

Faith took on that tone she got sometimes, when she thought Buffy was being a dope. ‘She’s suspicious that we’re a girl-gang, remember? So far, she’s starting to trust Robin. Man’s good at getting freaked-out kids to chill, so she’s been settling in alright. Probably some kind of fucked up leftover of his teaching career or whatever-the-hell.’ She paused briefly, concern leaching over the phone lines. ‘I think the main thing was to get the poor kid the hell out of LA before something bad happened, because she’s been freelancing hardcore since the big reveal told her what her instincts were all about. I think it was only a matter of time before she ended up on camera somewhere, dusting some vamp, you know?’

A shiver worked its way up Buffy’s spine. “Oh, crap.”

‘Yeah,’ Faith answered dryly. ‘So far as I know, no one’s seen her working, so, fingers crossed, huh?’

“For sure.” Buffy exhaled hard and shoved her hair back, feeling freaked. “Thanks, Faith. You rock.”

‘Well, you know. It’s my way of performing public service without being a joiner.’

The girl really was kind of a softie under the hard exterior. “Anything new on Angel?”

Faith turned on a dime from wry to disgusted. ‘Man, that guy’s a damn ghost. Nothing here, no one’s seen him, everyone’s still pissed.’ Another brief pause, then, ‘Is it weird that the blue bitch’s also been gone?’

Buffy frowned thoughtfully. “She said she was gonna go to Vegas to throw down with Wolfram and Hart over Wesley’s ghost. Maybe she’s still getting into it with them.”

‘Damn. Well, maybe she’ll take ‘em out and save you two having to deal with another enemy right now. ‘Cause it’s not like you have the time.’

“Right?” /Amen./

‘Okay, well, I’ll hit you up if anything changes.’

Buffy smiled wide enough that Faith would be sure to hear it over the phone. “Seriously appreciate you.”

‘Stop it or you’ll make me go all mushy.’ 

It was fun to make her sound pleased against her will. Smiling faintly to herself, Buffy signed off and turned to Spike. “LA’s at station-keeping…” She shook her head. “Except that Illyria’s still gone.”

Spike flicked at his cigarette. “Maybe Faith’s right, and she’s dismantling the lawyers down to the bricks. Worse things could happen.” He lifted the stick, took another drag, and spoke around streamers of anxious smoke that said he was far more concerned for his friend than he tried to seem. “Probably best she keeps them distracted till we’re done with this Twilight business.”

“Good point.” Buffy touched his knee. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. She is a god, after all. Look what it took to take out Glory, and she was also in a nice human suit…”

Spike’s face twisted slightly, and he looked away. “Could’ve ended that whole sodding thing by draining that tosser Ben…” he pointed out, disgruntled.

“Consider the migraines…” Buffy answered cheerily. Though, looking back… That really would’ve been a much cleaner and faster way to end that whole thing than jumping to her death. “Stupid chip,” she admitted, sobering slightly.

Spike’s eyes lifted to hers, serious and blue. “Would’ve done it. ‘F I’d’ve known what the alternative was? Would’ve done it and happy to.”

/Oh, damn./ “I know,” she answered, soft and sure. “And I’d’ve fought you the whole way, because human…”

He shrugged and pitched the cigarette out onto the flagstones, beyond his little hank of shadow. “You’d’ve forgiven me after, once you remembered what he was.”

Buffy sighed and leaned her head back against the cool wall beside him. It was weird being back at the castle. “Maybe,” she answered. She’d considered Spike very much an ally by that point… but a conditional one. She really had given him very little leeway, behaviorally-speaking; and she had always been ready to think the worst of him. 

/And then Giles did exactly that, eventually. And when you found out about it, later, you were like, ‘Eh’./ Granted, that had been a couple years and a death later, and she had grown up a lot in the interim, lost a hell of a lot of her previous idealism to resurrection and depression and yadda. But still. “I hope I would have,” she answered now, troubled in hindsight.

“No use lookin’ back now, I s’pose,” Spike put in finally, and pushed himself upright. “So; you considered Groo’s offer?”

She had. Portals aside, it sounded like a hell of a pleasant way to go home, to ride back on the dragon. Nostalgic. Groo, for his own part, had proposed to remain behind at the castle with his pegasus, for the time being. Unsurprising, since he appeared to be, ah… enjoying the Slayers’ enjoyment of him. 

He was proving quite popular amongst the older tier of girls, as pertained to late night parties and general merriment, and Buffy absolutely did not want to know how many of them had availed themselves of his personal charms within the last week. Honestly, she was damned grateful for his visit. He was a one-man, walking, talking stress-reducer—at least for the straight chicks—just wandering around the castle, all goodwill and smiles and part-demon affability; open and available and very, very… capable. /And did we mention sturdy?/

Essentially, he was hired, and too bad he didn’t have brothers. Maybe he should tour the cells, like a nice, affable gigolo. “It’d be cool to hang with the dragon again for a while…” Cordy the dragon would return to its master of its own recognizance, no doubt, once they’d landed at Almerimar. In the meantime, the poor beast needed the recreation, depending on how long Groo intended to stay—which was hopefully a while. It was easier for him to keep the pegasus in exercise than it was for him to take the dragon on long jaunts, high enough to avoid being seen by the Scottish populace. 

As it was, he’d probably prompted not a few cryptid rumors on his wild career across the globe to get here. /And now we’re about to do the same, but whatever. We’ll stay high./

It would be like riding a living motorcycle, only huge. /We’ll snuggle./ 

That was how it worked out, too. Just a matter of staying high enough for the reports of a giant pterodactyl or whatever not to be taken seriously by the news outlets and scientists. The former were way distracted at the moment anyway, what with the whole ‘vampires-are-real’ thing. Though, one might think hearing that vampires and demons were real might net the world greater belief in something like dragons. 

The latter were so hung up on trying to classify vampires and demons—or, alternatively, in trying to deny the scientific possibility of their existence in a taxonomic classification—that something like random dragon-sightings across the globe didn’t really make much of a dent. 

Considering the way the docs from the Initiative had responded when trying to scientifically classify demonkind, that bunch had a long road ahead of them. “They have to accept the possibility of alternate dimensions, first, for one bloody thing,” Spike muttered as they patted the rumbling dragon and sent the creature back up into the friendly night, to return to Groo. “Only a few of ‘em even believe in the multiverse and that sort of thing…” 

/Which, since we all know there are as many Buffys and Spikes as there are choices we’ve made…/ It was a scary thought, sure. And that was even without the whole dimensions-worlds-origins-doorways thing. And then there was ‘heaven’, and probably who knew how many hells… 

And the poor, earthly scientists were sitting here trying to classify every demon species they saw on a one-world taxonomy. No wonder they were at a loss. “Thanks, Cordy,” Buffy murmured, and patted the dragon on its haunches as it bunched up and launched itself—incidentally scattering dirt and leaves all over them from the little copse they’d chosen as camouflage for their landing site. As the dragon beat its wings and pelted up toward the heavens, circling to head back north, she sighed and drew in a deep, calming inhale of southern Spain. The scent soothed, and when had that become the smell of home and safety? “Well, hopefully they’ll be able to get it. It’s better than assuming demons are all some kind of sub-human animal.” Shrugging, she turned for home, about a mile away down the beach. “And then there’s the whole magicks thing…”

Spike slung an arm companionably over her shoulders and lifted his recently-lit cigarette, flicked it as he glanced out over the wide, gleaming Mediterranean. “If they can think of it the way our girl does, they’ll do alright.”

Buffy smiled faintly over her crossed arms, followed his gaze. Spike liked to pretend he only put up with the former Scoobies’ because they were ‘Buffy’s mates’, but she thought he was beginning to rather enjoy their company. Especially Willow’s, and in a backhanded sort of way, even Xander’s, now the guy had finally chilled out about them. Wil’s exegesis last night about how one could actually explain magicks from a scientific perspective had had him nodding in sincere agreement, and even putting in interested commentary. All this stuff Buffy had barely been able to follow about how the vibrations put off by every object and living thing in existence could be explained in terms of protons and electrons and stuff, and how that meant that everything in existence had a ‘coronal discharge’, which was positive or negative, _“And you can call it magnetism or whatever you want, but it’s energy, and you can affect it, or the Shroedinger’s cat thing would never have been a thing. And some of us can direct it with our will, and those are the people who are magicks-users. It’s the Observer Principle in action, is all. I mean, people act like I’ve bailed on science to become a witch, but it’s all the same forces, just using different tools. You just have to learn to hack into what others think of as reality, and bend it to your purposes. Like in_ The Matrix; _you remember that little kid? Where he said, all you have to realize is that ‘there is no spoon’? Once you accept that the rules aren’t really rules, just guidelines, you can do_ anything _to what we call ‘reality’.”_

Most of it had gone right the hell over Buffy’s head, but it was clear that Wil really was brilliant. She probably should’ve gone to school at Yale or whatever, not UC-Sunnydale. Heck; she probably wouldn’t’ve ended up addicted to magicks at all, if she’d ever been properly stimulated in an environment more challenging than a sub-par state school… but that ship had long since sailed. 

/Or not. Stop it, Buffy./ They were all still young, and that kind of thinking was fatalistic, child-soldier thinking. Spike was always telling her to quit that. /Think positive; for all of us. We’re not broken, or dying, or damaged beyond having futures. Maybe someday Will’ll go do a doctorate somewhere in… whatever. Physics, or IT or something./ 

Anyway, Buffy wasn’t going to take responsibility for her friend’s having chosen to stay in Sunnydale. Not on top of everything else. Wil had been in love at the time. It hadn’t all been about ‘staying to help my BFF save the world’, no matter what Willow had told her when she’d decided to stick around. And anyway, right now there was the heck of a challenge facing her friend, who was at this point a serious leader in her own right. Which was by the way, something Wil had always wanted. She was a recognized authority in her field, and stood second to no one in their group. That had to feel good. 

Besides, no way Wil could get bored right now. Considering the way things were going, it was only a matter of time before witches would be on the news, too. Willow was getting herself all mentally prepped for that big reveal; was on the phone with various covens she was allied with at all hours of the day, almost to the extent that she was letting some Slayer-related stuff fall to the wayside. Which was fair, since her job with the Organization was more to keep it protected, magicks-wise, while she continued her researches. 

Buffy let her gaze rest on the broad, lovely Mediterranean waters, listened to the wash of the small, regular waves on the beach; felt them soothe her soul and wash away the pressing of everything that tried to attack her ‘home’ serenity. /This is _our_ place, where none of that matters. Nothing’s come to a head yet. We’re safe here./ Everything was currently at station-keeping. The Organization had picked a girl named Sara Fernandez, from the Rome cell, to be the Slayer spokesperson. She was doing a great job of countering the most recent reports about vampires, since that whole mess had, of course, gone from bad to worse. Seven people in four cities had seen vamp-bites go wrong, and two dustings had occurred because of those events (though luckily none of the latter had yet occurred on-camera). 

The public vacillated from one opinion to another on the subject of vampires, and on Slayers, on the daily. 

And, of course, Harmony was all over it. Which meant Sara—a girl who, lucky for them, had grown up in the public eye, as the daughter of an attaché or some sort of official or other in, maybe, Portugul? Brazil?—had to go on TV to handle the backlash. Anyway, Sara was handling things with considerable aplomb, and had already gotten herself booked on a talk show opposite Harmony herself, so they could have a little friendly Vamp-and-Slayer debate about the subject of supernatural relations. /What was it, again? _Oprah_ , this time? _Sally Jessy?_ /

Buffy was just grateful she didn’t have to handle that whole sitch herself. /I am so not TV-spokeswoman material./ Knowing her, all her glib quips would fail her, and, faced with a camera, she’d turn into word-soup-Buffy and ruin the entire thing. 

/No thanks./

As they got back to their bungalow on the beach and unlocked the door, entered the cool, long-untouched hall, smelled the faint smells that meant a beach-house that had not been aired out, Buffy blew out a breath and turned the radio on. It felt like an invasion. It was, however, unfortunately necessary, after a few hours away. 

Rapid-fire Spanish leapt into life, rattling off excited news, in which the word ‘vampira’ and the name ‘Senorita Kendall’ figured prominently. “Oh, jeez.”

There was no escaping it, anymore.

Spike was listening closely, his brows drawn together. “‘According to the interview,” he translated shortly, “‘Miss Kendall is now in negotiations with American television stations regarding possible talk-show contracts…’” His face twisted in disgust. “Bloody hell. Imagine Harm doin’ soddin’ interviews on her own bleedin’ show…” 

Buffy shut the radio back off. /Hopefully she’ll have Sara on as the first guest, if there is a God./ “Ugh. This calls for ice cream. Did I have any ice cream here before we left?”

Spike twitched his shoulders in a ‘no idea, luv’ kind of way, and followed her into the kitchen.

Once their friends heard they were back, of course, their quiet reentry devolved into a long and convivial gathering to celebrate their return (and/or toast the group's mutual doom, depending on everyone’s individual point of view). Everyone got pretty damn soused—to be expected, considering the news—and the inevitable (lengthy) poker game ensued, with Spike dealing out seven card stud in Dawn’s room while Tiny passed out endless platters of hors d’ouvres. This group, who had, most of them, been through literal hell together, did their best to laugh off the idea of exposure, and everything they had ever known changing forever, joking roughly about life, the universe, and everything till about three AM. Though, considering recent events, the laughter was more than a little strained, the expressions somewhat taut, the jokes often falling flatly into blank space without a safety net. 

“Do you think Harmony will out us werewolves?” Nina asked at one point, drunk and anxious as she held out her two cards.

The table went silent.

/And, things get real./

Jamal, who was dealing at the time, made a twisted sort of face. “Man, if she does, I’m out. Imma bury myself so deep, they’ll need a backhoe to find me.” His intelligent, incisive gaze shot up to meet Nina’s. “You know the chick, right? You met her at that lawyer place? Would she do that?”

Nina shrugged uncertainly; hard enough that she tipped slightly in her chair. “I don’t know.” She hiccupped a little, shook her head. “I only talked to her a couple of times; usually just to arrange a meeting with Angel. It’s not like I… know her super well or anything…”

Floating over near where his cards were being held for him by Tiny, who never really played, Betta George looked as uncomfortable as his fishy features allowed. Understandable, considering all the hidden angst flying around the room, but bless him for joining in in the name of group solidarity, the poor guy. --We can’t do much about it, you know,-- he pointed out as he nodded his blunt nose at the cards he wanted to exchange. --Might as well relax and just wait to see what happens, then go from there.--

Maria darted a look toward first Nina, then her boyfriend, then glanced over at Spike. She abruptly abandoned her hand—which was decent, but obviously no big winner—and let out a breath that sounded decided. “I think we all know everyone’s gonna end up outed by the end of this. And I think the best thing that can happen, because of that, is if we all choose how it happens, so it can happen the best way we can manage it.” She turned to Jamal, laid her hand on his arm. 

Jamal sucked in a hard breath, sounding abruptly transfixed. “Babe, no…”

Maria fixed him with a patient, but pointed look. “Tell me it’s not the best way,” she insisted softly. “I mean, it’d make you guys look all great and romantic, and piggyback on the way things are going for the vamps, right now, while everyone’s ripe to think of you in a positive way…”

Jamal closed his eyes, looking more terrified than Buffy had ever seen the stoic man look. “When…”

Maria turned back to them, held her breath briefly, then exhaled on a decided note. “I think I’m ready to find a publisher for my book. I think it’s the right time. I think it’ll really help Jamal and Nina and the other werewolves—and a lot of other of us hidden people, you know? And if I’m gonna do it, I need to jump on it. You know, before, it was just gonna be, like, everyone would think it was a fantasy deal, but now…”

/Oh, jeez./ Buffy had never asked too many questions, didn’t think Spike had delved too deeply into what Maria was writing about either. And, for some reason, Maria had never really gotten into it in any depth. She’d kind of played it coy when they’d asked, but now it seemed like a need-to-know thing. “What’s…”

“It’s about a love-triangle,” Maria interrupted hopefully. “About a girl who’s cursed to be part-demon, making her way in a new underground world—the Twinkling world, where all the hidden lights are found—who falls in love with a vampire. But it becomes a love-triangle when she finds out the vampire’s already in love with a retired demon-hunter. And then the girl, in the end, lives happily ever after with a handsome werewolf…”

“Oh, wow,” Nina whispered, paling. “That’s just…”

/A little too close to home? Basically an autobiography? Please tell me you’re leaving out the part with the dungeon./

“Oh, Christ,” Spike groaned, and turning his cards over to slap them down on the table so he could drop his face into his hand.

Buffy wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry. /Oh my God, Maria./ No wonder she’d been all cagey about the plot whenever they’d asked. 

To be honest, though, depending on how sympathetically the girl wrote the ‘demon-hunter’ part, and, of course, her introduction to the demon world in general, her instincts might be right on the money, and the book might be another much-needed drop in the PR bucket right now. “Uh… can we read it?” Even as she asked, Buffy steeled herself to hear a yes, since that answer was almost as frightening as a no would be.

Maria smiled shyly. “Yeah, okay.”

That night, in bed with their laptop and the file Maria had sent, Buffy couldn’t help but giggle at the relatively well-written, if overwrought, prose that was honestly just an ill-disguised (and, luckily, much-amended) memoir. It had its bittersweet moments at first, of course, when it came to how the girl had fallen—or, rather, been forced—into the demon world and had had to adapt, but once past that part, and she got into the whole crushing on Spike… /Excuse me; _‘Jagger’_. _God_./ 

Spike, reading over her shoulder, didn’t giggle nearly as much as she did. He did groan a lot. 

Then, of course, there was ‘the Huntress’ character (who as far as Buffy could determine, might never get a name, throughout the entire novel), who at this point in the thing was just this mysterious encroacher, dangerous and lurking around the edges, drawing ‘Jagger’s eye…

“I can’t anymore.” Buffy closed the laptop, dissolved into near hysterics. “I mean, teenagers and stuff will eat it up, but I just…” She _couldn’t_ , and lost it for a while, laughing till her stomach hurt and her face ached.

Spike lifted the computer, put it aside. “Bored housewives will as well, I’d imagine, who’re fascinated by the new craze. I might not be able to finish it…”

“God, do you think there’s gonna be smut?”

His face twisted. “No doubt…”

“Oh, jeez…” Buffy wasn’t sure how she felt about that, considering past events, and glanced up at Spike. His expression was wary, illegible. “All of this is so ridiculous. Just, all of it. I can’t even. What even _is_ the world, right now?”

“Might’ve accidentally stepped into an alternate bloody dimension, innit?”

She closed her eyes, turned, and buried her face in his shoulder, uncertain whether it was the right response to laugh or to cry. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe we can just grab Dawn, tell her to do something Key-y, and we can all run back to whatever one there is where everything makes sense again?”

Spike was silent for a sec before replying. “Probably upset the balance of the space-time continuum or some bloody thing if we did that.”

/Ugh./ “Why do you have to be so logical?”

“Mmmmfff.”

After a moment of silence, she removed her face from his body to eye his jaw, currently rippling with what looked like annoyance. “It’s just… If she wanted the book to be taken seriously, why did she call it _‘Twinkling’?”_

Spike made a pained sound. “Buffy, for chrissake, _please_. I’m trying not to think about it.”

Giggling again, just relieved to have something inane to laugh about, she nuzzled into his neck, inhaled his scent, and let herself be grateful that no matter what happened, they had each other. “Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

They remained still for a while, just breathing… and, dammit, neither of them were going to be able to sleep anytime soon. Not the way they were jittering. With an internal shrug, Buffy slid down his chest, kissing her way along his belly. In lieu of reading smut she really would rather not anyway…

Might as well do something useful with their mutual insomnia.

Her actions caught his attention fairly swiftly. “Oh, bloody hell, Buffy, I…”

“Shh. I’m anxious. I need something to do to blow off steam. And I figure since you are too…”

His breath hissed out between his teeth, and he arched up a little off the bed. “Yeah, well… Christ! Far be it from me to… Oh, fuck! Stand in the way of your… relaxation techniques…”

“Mmmhmm.”

They eventually fell asleep, somewhere a little before sunrise, far more disposed to rest than light reading had led them to feel.

***

The next week was a whirl of blows, coming at them all at a steadily-increasing speed. They finished Maria’s amusing and overall lighthearted book, which, with a couple of minor suggestions as to PR, went to a suddenly avid publisher who was extremely willing, out of nowhere, to fast-track anything and everything to do with ‘actual, documented demon lifestyles’. Maria was about to be an overnight success, god help them all. 

She might even end up a guest star on Harmony’s new TV show. Yes, freaking Harmony Kendall now had a damn TV talk show. On a regular channel, syndicated and everything, so that it could be seen—dubbed—over here in Europe, too. It was called “Harmony Bytes” (yes, actually, seriously, a play on ‘Harmony bites’, for real). She was also reportedly still dating Andy Dick, who was apparently doing the donor thing for her on the regular. 

Even better, the ditzy-but-shrewd vamp had gone and started some sort of ‘Reform Vampirism’ movement, gauged to get the most out of the new craze, meals-wise. Which was just perfectly-timed, wasn’t it, since now every third idiot was jumping on the bandwagon to donate blood to the new Reform Dispensaries appearing literally everywhere for vamps to come pick out blood like they were going to the liquor store. That was, if they weren’t just standing around outside at night by the doors to clubs asking people if they were vamps, and if so, were they ‘Reform’? Which, you know, meant that even the most equally idiotic—or broke—of vamps didn’t even have to go through the effort of hunting. They could just freaking _shop_ , or grab a dope off the street, say they’d ‘reformed’, invite the dumbass around the corner… 

And it wasn’t like you could take the risk to stake anyone until it was almost too late. Not right now. Which meant that all the girls were freaking out about how to do their jobs, and were they supposed to just stand there and watch people die? Which was, of course, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, as Mom would have put it, because not everyone had a handy vamp around, like Buffy did, who could listen in on the nearby heartbeats, and warn off the vamp in question when said pulse started to bobble. They just had to wing it when the human snack started to sag. And it wasn’t like Buffy could tell them anything more useful, and this was just such a _mess_. /Thank God we got in on the ground floor of this thing with good Slayer PR, or everyone would hate us, all over the world. Like, really _hate_ us, for even touching vampires!/ 

Maria’s publishers straight up rushed the book. She didn’t even argue much about the stupid name. They just jumped at it, completely capitalizing on the craze. And, yes, Maria was going to end up a guest star on _Harmony Bytes_. Which worked, since her whole big goal on that was to basically push for werewolf rights. 

Buffy wasn’t even sure it was a good thing that Sara was scheduled to be on there first, anymore. If people wanted to start obsessing about werewolf rights instead of Slayers, right now, more power to ‘em, right? But then, the Organization definitely still needed to get their blurb in there about how Slayers weren’t evil or anything, too.

They definitely needed someone to talk up the organization while they had even half the chance to do so. 

Sara was clearly their girl. She even fielded things smoothly when the subject of the bank robberies came up. Granted, she was probably prepared for the question. Anyway, she easily explained that those accounts actually belonged to the girls in question. That the men who’d held them had all been killed by their enemies in the past. “We had to get to the money somehow, to feed and clothe everyone now they were gone. It was the only way to do it. We didn’t take anything that didn’t already belong to us. It was the equivalent of putting dynamite on the door to your own safe when you’ve lost the key to the lock.”

“Alright,” Harmony chirped in answer, “but when I lock myself out of my apartment, I don’t buy a grenade and blow up my door to get back inside!”

“Fair,” Buffy admitted, snorting with mirth. 

Honestly, it could have been worse. She felt it had gone fairly well, in retrospect.

“This whole thing is fucking insane,” Spike muttered, staring at their TV. Robin had sent a copy of the interview to all the cells. Wil and Xander had forwarded one to them, so they could watch Sara expertly field all of Harmony’s strangely ingenious questions, if belied by their seemingly empty-headed delivery. “Bloody hell. American idiocracy was bleeding bad enough, worshiping people like that Ritchie bird and, what’s the other one?”

“Paris Hilton?” Seriously; how had the ex-Cordette managed to turn ‘bimbo’ into such an art form? /'I’m going to make vampires look like just the girl nextdoor, while making you look insane, all at the same time, and never stop being a bubbly cheerleader, who is also a cool cryptid, ask me how!'/ 

It was nuts. Harmony was literally born for this. She’d found her freaking _niche_.

“Yeah,” Spike continued his rant. “And the singer, as well. The one who can’t answer a question straight to save her life, and just hopes her idiot husband can answer it for her. Christ, people think it’s sodding _cute_ …”

Buffy thought he was talking about Jessica Simpson, now. It was turning into a tirade. Complete with gestures. It was actually kind of adorable.

Setting her chin into her hand, Buffy bent over the back of the sofa and batted her lashes at him, watching his jerky movements and arm-flailing with interest, and waited for his furious energy to wind down.

He barely noticed; at least for the moment. “I’m just bleedin’ grateful we’re not living there right now, in a sodding country where they’d crown someone like goddamned _Harmony_ as queen of the bloody world because she had the idiocy to bite someone famous on camera, so now they’ve turned her into a fucking vampire Ricki Lake…”

His head jerked up and his harangue cut off abruptly. 

“What?”

“Phone, Love.”

“Oh.” Jogging around the back of the couch, Buffy went to the little table by the back door and grabbed up her phone where they usually left them, scanned the screen. It was Willow. “Hey, Wil,” she answered easily. “What’s…”

‘We just got attacked.’

“Woah, what?” To say her heart had sped up to about twice the normal BPM was no exaggeration.

‘Yeah. But, in a really weird way. Almost like they were less trying to accomplish something than just to get our attention, or something?’

Buffy frowned, her heart slowing. “Okay,” she prodded, and leaned back against the Spike who had appeared promptly upon hearing her altered heart rhythms. ‘Ready to serve’, as it were. “What actually happened?”

What had actually happened, apparently, was that some randos wearing fancy commando-type gear had somehow snuck into the HQ and attempted to steal the fake Scythe they kept there in the main command center. Which they hadn’t managed to do, since between a couple hundred Slayers, several witches, and Groo, they’d all been taken captive or killed. ‘Your girl Simone showed up really well in the fight, by the way. I think this attack has her convinced you weren’t blowing smoke, for what it’s worth. She’s definitely welded to the cause. I think she was ready to shake those guys down personally to figure out what they were after.’ 

What the Organization members hadn’t counted on was that each of the guys they’d captured had apparently carried some kind of cyanide capsules (seriously. Like, a self-destruct thing. Not even kidding), and had suicided when they’d been taken captive. So, no way to know what their real objective had been. All the girls had up there were bodies branded with that weird Twilight mark. That was it.

‘Your friend Groo is getting some serious love, by the way,’ Wil informed them as an aside. ‘I mean, he was getting attention before this, but now that the girls have seen him in a fight…’

Buffy smirked a little, hearing it. She would have laughed, if things weren’t so dire. Consequently, her smile turned upside-down as swiftly. “Someone’s after the Scythe.” It wasn’t a question.

‘Apparently.’

/Damn. This is getting real, if they don’t want us to have that./ “Do you need us to…”

‘No. Stay out of sight.’ Wil sounded really disturbed, and deeply pensive. ‘It might have been a feint to get you two to come out of hiding. Just hang back for a little longer, and let’s see what happens.’

“Okay. Keep us posted.”

‘For sure.’

Apparently, hearing about this assault had sobered up even their most voluble detractors, as everyone who had questioned it before recognized the vast scope of the conspiracy to disarm, defang, and/or defame the Slayer Organization. Robin was tightening up security like woah, and there had been no further murmurings about any of the PR measures from Giles. So far as they had heard, he hadn’t even spoken out against Sara’s little visit to Harmony’s show. 

Slayer solidarity was the new watchword.

After the big interview, things seemed to stabilize… until about three days after Sara’s testimony, when, while the world was still buzzing over the interview, Wil called again. ‘You guys need to come up here. We’re under attack again. And this time, I think they really mean business.’

“You’re…”

‘I think they’re trying to wipe us right off the map. _All_ of us.’

**TBC  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**

(quote by Albert Einstein)

 _bellisima =_ gorgeous 

_mio amico_ = my friend 

_Benvenuti a Roma_ = welcome to Rome  
  
The "Twinkling" books were a weird little side-note in the comics. Interesting to play with here in more depth as a PR thing, rather than just a jab at the _other_ "Twilight", and a way for the movement in here to mess with our people. Can't take credit, though, save to use it in different ways.

The mismanagement of Simone Doffler in the comics was fodder for a lot of later (completely unnecessary) storylines that I refuse to entertain. Why not just, you know, have better personnel management? Use people's talents and skills in the right places and ways so that they aren't wasted or turned into caricatures of themselves, but can instead blossom?   
  
No? Unnecessary angst and drama is better? (sorry, comics peeps, I got worn out on that crap in the first seven years of serial tv storytelling. I want grown-up characters who've learned from their very personal intrapersonal mistakes.)  
  
meanwhile... next chapter? Thought we'd never get there. Like, EVER. It just seemed so far away. I'm kind of stunned we've finally rolled up on this beyotch. Can't wait!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're here. The battle. The big fight. Or, at least, we're at the beginnings of it... which, whew. Surprises me, actually. 
> 
> Hope it is interesting, as all this stuff I started as far back as the first story in the series finally begins to come to its fruition. (Not all of it, there's more story for which those building blocks will have their effect, but this is a huge chunk of it, problem-solving-wise.)

  
“All revolutions are, until they happen, then they are historical inevitabilities.” 

* * *

Buffy levered herself up off of Spike’s chest, blinking. They’d been watching her favorite movie together in the living room, since it was one her vampire didn’t mind either. She lifted the remote and hit pause, alarmed by the freaked-out tones in Wil’s voice. The figure skater and the former hockey player abruptly ceased tiffing-in-lieu-of-shagging, as Spike would put it, and she turned her attention to whatever had put that note of near-panic in her oldest friend’s voice. “What…”

‘Riley just got ahold of us. He’s been in deep with Twilight. He says the group’s planning some kind of magickal missile attack against the HQ within the next couple of days…’

Buffy felt herself snap into general mode. “Excuse me? A _magickal_ missile?”

‘Yeah. Something about how our dear friend Amy was working on making one invisible to modern detection with magicks, so it wouldn’t show up on radar and they could use it to home in on our auras or something, like…’ A rustle. ‘What did you say it was, Xander?’ 

‘Like some kind of sidewinder in a video game version of _Top Gun_ ,’ Xander stepped in, sounding breathless and not a little freaked.

‘Yeah, okay; that. Anyway, magicks-seeking instead of heat-seeking, or something. Riley says she’d been working on it with Warren, but when he died they had someone else pick up where he left off with her…’

“Okay,” Buffy muttered, feeling seriously put out now, “what the heck is her issue with us, though. I mean, doesn’t Amy get that it wasn’t your fault she was a rat? Seriously; like… she turned _herself_ into the stupid thing. Does she not _remember_ that? You did the best you could. And then, you know, she made _herself_ an addict. All you did was refuse to continue to be her co-addict, eventually.” /What _even_ , though?/

Wil’s voice went bland. ‘Somehow she doesn’t seem to see it that way. We’re not on her side, so we’re her enemies, I guess.’

“Okay, but wow.”

‘I know, right?’ A sort of verbal shrug from Willow. ‘Anyway, the attack is coming. Not sure why they think bombing us is gonna help ‘em…’

/That part’s easy enough./ “They figure Spike and I would be there by now.” It all came clear in her mind. They’d pushed too far, too hard, too fast with the widespread attempts to coordinate a demon-wide alliance, and stayed too well hidden while they’d done it. Their enemies couldn’t stop them coordinating something so sneaky and workable as long as they stayed underground, so they had to drag the two of them to the surface where they could be countered, stopped, all their negotiations halted. Or, at least, so Twilight hoped; that if they could manage to off her and Spike, all their attempts at creating said alliance would fall apart, and the Slayers would be left on their own, once more the hated and feared pariahs of the demon-world.

They wanted her and Spike where they could find them, attack them. Where they could get all the Organization’s leadership in one blow, and demoralize the Slayers by it. Cut off the head of the snake, and yadda. “They’re hoping to disable us from the center outward.” Buffy could hear the cold, emotionless thing rising in her voice. The one that said she was slipping into that place. The one she hated to be in; the one she’d tried so hard to shed, in these last months with Spike. 

Her eyes found his, hating this. Hating all of it. He nodded his understanding, his own eyes liquid on hers; because they both knew that whatever it cost them, they would climb back out of it together, in the end. 

They would find their way.

In the meantime, it was time to kick this thing into gear. Survival first. “Which means, Spike and I shouldn’t come there. That’s what they want.” 

Xander’s voice took over the call. ‘So, what; you think we should run, or…’

“No.” Buffy met Spike’s eyes once more, certain of his agreement. It was now or never. “Then they’d be picking the ground. I think it’s time we met them head-on. I think it’s time we stop responding to their threats, and choose our _own_ ground.”

‘What are you…’

Nodding, Spike slipped from under her and went to get his own phone. Opening it, he started making calls.

Eyes still on his quicksilver body, Buffy interrupted her friends’ startled exclamations. “They want us running scared. They want on the defensive.” Feeling grim, hunted, and more than a little done with both, Buffy felt her voice go hard. “They want us dancing to their tune, too frazzled to fight back. But we have coordination on our side, and reputations, and we need to make use of them. So we need to go where we’re strongest. Where they’d least expect it.” 

‘What are you thinking, Buffy?’ Wil asked, low-voiced and suspicious. 

“We moved up their timetable, with all our demon-coordination. They’re freaked, and they don’t want us to know it.” Buffy mouthed something to Spike, who nodded, hit the ‘end’ button on his phone, and dialed another number. “We need to get you out of there, get all the cells on red alert. We move you guys first, since you’re on ground zero; but we do it quiet, so they don’t know you’re not there. Maybe leave behind a small, volunteer force we can move out quick; make the pretense of still having the place manned. Maybe they’ll waste an attack. Maybe keep ‘em distracted while we move every other cell, one by one, sneaky-style. Once we’re all in place, we take the high ground, make ‘em put their money where their mouths are…”

‘Buffy, what…’

Buffy firmed up her voice. “We make a stand at Hellmouth. We bring the fight to them.”

The Wil-and-Xan end of the line went blank with shock. Spike, though, was nodding his agreement with their previously-agreed-upon plan as he placed call after call. 

“They aren’t ready for us,” Buffy continued into the shocked silence. “We spring their trap early.” Eyes on Spike, she hoped like hell she wasn’t leading the entire Organization into a slaughter. That everything they had built over the last several months—/Okay, the last several years…/—would not be in vain. “We have some sympathy here, in Europe, but there, we have cachet. And we have _way_ more allies in Cali. If we put out the call in LA, where most of the refugees from Sunnydale went, and where most of the demons still live who knew us in Hell-A, we might get enough backing to scare the bastards off without an actual fight. And if they do decide to fight us, seeing that, we have people who’ll be willing to put the whole thing on camera.” /Who knew you might actually come in so handy, Harmony?/ “It’ll make them look like the absolute worst; genocidal maniacs, even.” Buffy felt her mouth settle into a hard line. “I bet even zealots like those might think twice about coming after us if it was gonna end up on TV in front of millions of people who are, at least right now, totally sympathetic to the demon cause.”

‘Wow,’ Wil answered finally, sounding floored. ‘Is that… what you guys were shooting for this whole time, with all these meetings?’

“Hopefully.”

‘Wow.’ Xander echoed, his voice a little high. ‘Jeez, Buff; that’s a hell of an insurance policy.’ He sounded floored. ‘Man, I knew you were brilliant when it came to planning counterattacks and stuff, but I just… When we were coming with you two to those meetings and stuff, I never thought…’

“It’s been a work-in-progress,” Buffy admitted easily, blowing off his amazement. 

Spike threw her a quick glance from his station, filled with irritation that she would ever hide her light under a bushel, because that was how he rolled. Ever in awe of her, even when they’d come up with the whole thing together, chopped and changed and rolled with every punch as one.

Xan and Willow remained silent for a moment on the other end of the line, obviously digesting all the ins and outs of the thing. Finally, Xander came back in. ‘I mean, tactically, it’s sound. If you come to a fight with double the manpower… Or, I mean, demon-power… Nine times out of ten, the other guy backs down or looks for a treaty. And that’s before the whole ‘on video’ thing, which...’ 

‘And considering Spike used to date the main TV spokesperson for demon rights…’ Willow broke in wryly.

‘Man,’ Xander repeated, sounding very much smacked between the eyes. ‘Yeah. I mean… we all went to school together. You think… I mean, I know, with the whole vamp thing, there’s been some bad blood. You think Harmony would pick our side?’

“Against a bunch of guys acting like the Initiative on steroids?” Buffy shot back, and caught Spike’s eye. A query. He’d know best. 

He covered his phone to respond in the general direction of her mic. “Harm’s a coward, but she’s shrewd in her own way. She goes the way is best suited to keeping her kicking. Right now that’d be our side.” And with a firm and certain nod, he returned to his own call.

The other two Scoobies absorbed this input for a moment. ‘Yeah, I guess…’ Xander muttered, clearly setting new values into his mental calculator. ‘And right now, the world thinks demons are pretty cool…’ 

‘And the Slayers aren’t looking bad, precisely,’ Wil put in, sounding more than a little hopeful. Which, to be fair, was about all they had. Buffy was honestly living on crossed fingers and prayers right now, that they could pull off this little coup.

/If the stars align…/ 

‘So… if the army tries to kill everyone like that in some big battle,’ Xan picked it up again, ‘when they’re the ones starting it, and the demons are showing up in solidarity with the Slayers, then god willing it’s the military who’re gonna come out looking like the bad guys. Heck,’ he finished, ‘we might come out of this with a lot of public opinion on our sides; like underdogs who are being picked on by the government. That’d be a nice change, after all the ‘scary bank-robbers’ hype…’

Buffy nodded, though they couldn’t see her. “Exactly.” Her eyes met Spike’s over the phones. “Considering what they could’ve done to make us look bad instead, they picked a really stupid time to start a fight.”

Spike lowered his phone and turned on his heel to head for the sliders. “I’ll go see if George is willing to come with us to LA.”

_“Thank you,”_ Buffy called after him, low and earnest. Between the two of them, the reflecting tensions were ratcheting up to an escalated place that was not good at all. Soon they’d be at a breaking point. Distance would help. /I appreciate you./

“Course, Love.” 

So much belief.

She watched him pacing out through the wide-open glass, to tear up the beach in long, hyperactive strides before turning back to her own call; tried a few long, calming breaths. /In through the nose, out through the mouth…/

‘Well… Alright, uh…’ Wil cleared her throat. ‘Okay. So, we’ll, uh, get the girls ready to move...’

Buffy returned her attention to the task at hand. So difficult to focus through the growing, blaring terror that always came, now, in the face of any big battl. It was automatic, after so many crises, so many worlds-endings. “If we move quietly, we can stage everyone at the Hyperion; at least at first. Angel is clearly not paying even a tiny bit of attention to that part of LA anymore.” She felt a tiny smile crease her lips, in spite of the danger, the rising spike of adrenaline. “It’ll be almost like poetic justice, using that place as our springboard, between landing in LA after fighting the First, and all the time we spent there during Hell-A…”

‘Yeah, I bet.’ Wil’s voice went thoughtful. ‘It is kinda small for everyone, though, even if we double, triple up. Maybe we can hit up Giles about using Organization money to find some kind of… whatever. Convention center or something for overflow, and filter everyone in from the Hyperion to there, in groups of fifty or something...’

/And this is why I have a team./ “Sounds perfect. You guys are the bestest, and you know it, right?”

Her longest-running supporters paused to accept and return the accolade. ‘Appreciate it Buffster. Same to you.’

‘Say that when I get everyone there and my hair’s still red. Aka I love you back.’

“You’ll do fine, Wil.” She knew it meant a lot, both internally and to Willow, that she didn’t even question that anymore.

‘Okay, we’ll… get back to you when we’re ready to have you… I guess, start talking to the natives?’

“Right. See you soon.” The troops could move themselves. She and Spike would be needed when it came to convincing the locals that this wasn’t a full-scale Slayer assault on Los Angeles. /Since invasions aren’t the best way to start negotiations or ask for favors./ Which meant that by tomorrow, they’d be hell and gone from Spain. This might be all over, forever. All of it. 

Desolation swamped her as she ended the call. /Everything. Everything we built here. It’s over, isn’t it. We might never get it back…/

She’d told herself that she was doing alright with this… this blooming disaster. That she could face it. But the truth was, she wasn’t okay. Not even a little. And she hadn’t even felt it creeping up on her—not really—until now. 

Spike knew it, of course. He felt it, and he _knew_ her. She could feel his eyes on her; saw his shoulders slump from here, as he paced back up the sands from the edge of the beach. And, maybe not even all just for her agonies. He after all had his own PTSD to pour into the big, bottomless well labeled ‘apocalypse losses’. “He says he’ll come with us,” he informed her in tight, reserved tones as he re-entered the house. “At least as far as LA, to help us recruit, though he won’t join in the fight. And he’d like to be returned here, after.”

“That’s fair,” Buffy breathed, feeling the ache spread in her chest; the trapped feeling. /No way out. Another fight. And this time, we could lose…/

/ _No_./ 

“Maria wants to come, ‘a course. Jamal’s tryin’ to talk her out of it…”

“Fair enough, after what happened last time.” /You won’t, so just keep breathing./ Business attended to, and with no other current distractions, her lungs felt like they were closing up. /You didn’t last time. We both made it out. It’s gonna be okay…/

Spike’s very stillness was indicative of holding himself together in the same way she was doing. “No doubt he’s right, and she can do us all a deal more good by pushing the PR angle with that soddin’ novel of hers. She can do a tour through LA with the thing. Drum up support post-battle or some bloody thing.”

“Good point.” /No time for apocalypse-induced panic./

“Tiny won’t come…”

Buffy exhaled a long-held breath, nodded in her turn. “I didn’t figure he would.” Tiny was no fighter, and he’d been pretty happy here in Spain. 

It was a terrifying, horrible sensation; and familiar as breath, by now, after however many apocalypses. Like falling. Like having the world pulled out from beneath one’s feet. A lurching, horrifying sense of loss and terror; the knowledge that you could lose everything, everyone. Especially… 

Spike’s eyes were liquid with shared agony, on hers. “Nina’ll join us. The girls as well…”

Buffy was nodding a sort of automatic acceptance, grateful, of course, for the sisters’ constancy. It was amazing they were willing again, considering the injuries and deaths they’d sustained as part of the Spikettes… but they were loyal as hell, those two.

Nina would also, of course, want to come in case she could help talk some sense into Angel—if this was really Angel. Still so hard to believe, much less to fight it. And…

It was all closing in. PTSD and the recognition that nothing would ever be the same again. The upheaval of life and loves and the awareness of loss; of home and family and safety and…

“Oh, Christ, Love; c’mere.” And she was in his arms, and he was holding her, and she was clinging, hard; and she could breathe again, as long as she had him. Because that meant that she hadn’t lost everything. If she still had him, that meant she hadn’t yet lost… That it hadn’t taken…

They were rocking together, and she had pulled him to the floor, because she had to know…

And he responded, because he understood, better than anyone. The tower, and her fallen, lifeless beneath it; lost to him, for one hundred and forty-seven days. 

Him, burnt up, dust beneath the hellmouth. Gone forever; for nearly a year. 

That night, she went a little crazy on him; and he did on her, and that was the way it had to be. It was the only way to get by; to keep the emotions from destroying them. To keep the fear from overwhelming, to keep from…

No; she still cried, and she thought he did as well. Bombs and destruction threatened, children under their care pounded down the doors, there was no time to breathe easy, or to just be them… And Buffy had spent too long telling herself she was doing okay, facing another world’s end without breaking. Now there was nothing left to do but stare into finality… and to spend all that terror right here where they always could. Together. 

It wasn’t slow for a long time. Not until they got past the first desperate hours made out of fear; of loss, the tearing horror of knowing that at any time, death could take from them what time had promised it would not, and leave them broken. 

“So sorry, Love. So sorry. Everything’s too fast.” Spike’s hands, his body, desperate as hers, and she was shaking her head, half-laughing through the tears. Always worried that he was doing enough, that he was enough for her. 

“Don’t worry; you’re doing fine.” Everything was insane. The whole world. /They’re scared of us, we’re scared of them, none of this makes any sense…/ 

/And right now, here, there’s only me, and you./ Sometimes she thought that was the only thing that kept her alive. Still; like it had been in that one awful year. Without Spike… 

Except, now, she tried to give him the same. /The pleasure’s mine. _Believe_ me./ 

It was the only way to be sure any of it was real. The only part she actually _wanted_ to be real.

Sometime before morning, when they had to rejoin the world, and the phones began ringing again; when the quiet, close night was trailing to its end, and they had a job to do, she held him, wrapped around her, loving her slowly now, from behind, and closed her eyes to the friendly dark of a bedroom they might never see again. And she whispered it; her greatest fear, aside from the one she couldn’t speak. Would never speak. “I don’t wanna go. I’m not ready to give this up.”

He couldn’t reassure her of things they both knew might not be in their power to give. So he lifted them both, to bring them close; to prolong it; kissed her neck, and held her close. “Then let’s make it last.”

They were weary, as they faced the coming travail, but they wouldn’t have slept anyway. Might as well go into the upcoming fight with steady hearts.

There was nothing else they could do.

***

Wil started moving the cells toward the Sunnydale hellmouth—or what was left of it—one by one, through vast portals, powered by joining up with whatever local witches. She moved the HQ first, Buffy and Spike leading the way to join Faith at the Hyperion. They’d stage there at first, and slowly filter the girls up toward Sunnydale as soon as they could get everything situated. Of course, with the aging hotel bulging at the seams, and local demon society awash and rampant with rumors of their arrival and numbers, it would obviously be tough to keep things quiet; to keep those Twilight bastards from figuring out what they were up to. Easier if they could tuck their army quietly away somewhere until they could move everyone up to the crater; without jumping the gun. “Now if we can just get that convention center…”

‘Actually,’ Giles broke in, from his end of the conference call, ‘I think we might be able to manage that easily enough. Especially considering current circumstances, I’d think it well worth the expense in order keep the business well hidden. I’ve looked into it, and though the Los Angeles Convention Center tends to be rented out months, if not a year in advance, there does in fact happen to be a bit of a gap right now, mid-week, due to a cancellation.’ His voice went wry. ‘Some sort of tizzy some religious group recently had over the presence of vampires in the city…’ A short, pointed pause. ‘Which does rather play to our advantage, yes?’

“Handy,” Buffy murmured, refusing to be drawn into the sarcasm game. 

‘Yes, well,’ Giles went on, ‘we’ve only to come up with some sort of cover story for why hundreds of young women are descending upon the city; one which might fool at least the regular human populace, now they know Slayers exist. Since no doubt it won’t in any way fool the demonic population…’

Buffy frowned, considering it. Shot a glance over at Spike where he leaned against the polished wood counter of the hotel lobby, gave a little shrug that might even have fit in with her more lackadaisical past life as a former cheerleader. /Remember that? When you were willing to relinquish all the details to other minds?/ “I dunno. Shoe free-for-all?” she suggested, blasé and lighthearted. It cost her, but it would be worth it.

She was convinced she could hear her former Watcher roll his eyes. She definitely heard his exasperated exhale, and was well paid out in the way Spike grinned broadly and tapped his teeth with his tongue, showing every incisor, including the usually-hidden buds of his fangs, in appreciation for her snark. 

‘I’ll think of something, Buffy,’ Giles finally put in, sounding tried. ‘At the very least, the place is quite near to the Hyperion—only a couple of blocks away and on the same street, in point of fact—so it should be fairly easy to filter the young ladies in through that establishment. And, because of their proximity, no one will think it all that odd when the girls begin wending their way through the streets.’

Fun and games over. Back to business. “Good deal. Thanks, Giles.” Honestly, Buffy was just glad that he wasn’t fighting them on the whole ‘going to war’ thing. This was ordeal enough. But she supposed that even for Giles, reports of a magickal missile attack in the offing were convincing enough that he’d had to admit that the threat was, in fact, very real.

He came through, too. The whole thing went off without a hitch. They filtered the girls from Scotland through first, to get them the hell out of the castle, though they made a show of keeping a few volunteers on the walls. It wouldn’t do for the enemy to realize they’d bailed and start looking for them elsewhere. 

This only-for-looks team had an escape route, of course, and were ready to dash out the second it looked like something was on approach; an effort aided by the fact they’d kept back one specially-magicked radar screen to watch the skies for incoming missiles. The rest of the state-of-the-art ready-room was moved to a secure facility down in some random, witchy, coven-protected area of England, somewhere to the west of London, to be held in trust for them by Daphne’s sister. It would remain there till the Organization could pick it up again; bespelled to keep it protected and secure. 

Not shockingly, Simone Doffler led the small posse of volunteers who stayed behind to woman the castle during the exodus. With those brave—or insane—girls marching around on the walls and keeping eyes on the radar screen, they’d know when the attack came, and Twilight would hopefully be none the wiser about their abrupt departure to practically the weird military cabal’s doorstep. 

Girls continued to flood slowly in from every cell, in groups of ten, twenty, thirty. Willow worked around the clock, shifting personnel and looking ready to drop as she opened portal after portal; from London, from Rome, from Paris, from the Azores and Barcelona, St. Petersburg, New York, Chicago, Cleveland… She was backed by several other, less powerful witches, but as the point-person, she was on for the entire transfer. Buffy was worried about her health, during all this, since they’d need her to protect the army during the hopefully-not-a-battle, as well. /We’ll need to give her at least a day to recharge./ 

Did they have a day?

The little sub-cell that had been forming down in Brazil trailed in finally, under the leadership of that one ex-Watcher, Richard whatever-his-name-was; the one who was willing to go along with the new program. Willow looked ready to pass out sitting up. 

The new cell Satsu’s friend Aiko had been building in Tokyo came in last, chattering together in Japanese. The girls passed through the lobby of the Hyperion, were collected into manageable groups, given a sort of dorm-leader, and shuffled promptly off from there, in twenties, to the LA Convention Center, to camp out with their bedrolls and pretend they were there to talk about… whatever.

Willow basically collapsed as soon as the last girl came through, lapsing into some sort of healing, witchy semi-coma. Xander carried her upstairs, where she remained crashed until time came for the fighting; a lump of strength-gathering, witchy meditation-ness on a quiet bed somewhere up in the upper floors of the hotel for the next however long. Xan set some other witch on her door to keep an eye on her and give them regular updates about her energy-levels, while they got all the girls situated.

All finally in one place, the cells percolated one by one over to the Convention Center, which had been officially reserved by Giles for this ‘gathering of fashion enthusiasts’, so that they could have ‘spa and salon time’ among other things. Which… Buffy kind of really wished that was true. After a battle like the one she hoped wasn’t coming—wishful thinking, much?—they’d all really deserve it.

It was pretty amazing to watch the sheer numbers of young, if well-trained, Slayers (along with not a few, equally well-trained witches, and small numbers of serious and newly-indoctrinated Watchers) sidle through the doors of the Hyperion on their way to the LACC. /Almost a thousand freaking people./ Six hundred Slayers made up the Organization, by now, along with almost four hundred… /What did Wil call ‘em? Ancillary personnel?/ Watchers, witches, lovers, relatives… /That’s nuts./ 

And yet… there were almost three times that many Slayers in the world who weren’t part of the Organization, for whatever reason. There were freaking eighteen-hundred Slayers out there—granted, some of them kids, and some close to aging out, but the fact remained that that was approximately twelve-hundred Slayers with their own agendas running wild in the world, without training or instruction. The adults, she figured, were one thing. Approximately four hundred of them had been interviewed back when this all began; the between twenty and twenty-five bracket. Most of them had careers or families or were in college, and thus hadn’t wanted to join up and lose out on their already-extant lives. Which was fair, from Buffy’s perspective. To be honest, if she’d had a life of her own before being Called, she’d have had serious second thoughts as well. After all, it wasn’t like the job offered a lot of perks or bennies. /Just a lot of sleepless nights, and entry-level job security in the form of repeat customers. No end in sight; just open up another dimension when you run low./ 

Probably one of the reasons why the Council had preferred their girls young, before they’d had any prospects to hold them back from being wholly taken over by the gig. And, well… you couldn’t bank on when someone would be Called, back in the day. Usually it happened sometime between puberty and about nineteen, and that had been considered old. There were only three twenty-and-overs in the Organization now; women who had had nothing else going on, and had been interested in doing something ‘wild’, because they’d been stuck in dead end jobs. 

No one over twenty-five had shown up at the doors of any cell. They had never really pursued why that was the cutoff for Slayerness, till Wil had done her scientific mojo last month, but probably it had to do with regeneration, or rather the lack thereof after that general age.

Anyway, that bunch were unlikely to cause the Organization many problems; or at least, not before the big showdown coming up. Which was all they really needed, for the moment. /If we can just keep the PR on our side for a few more days…/ 

The kids, though… That was another story. For one, there were a heck of a lot of them—about another six or seven hundred, Xander thought. Fair enough again that at least half hadn’t wanted to leave their families to join up—after all, what teen or preteen did? Only the abused ones, and then there was custody to deal with. Yeah, they’d gotten a few of those, with some sneaky paperwork sleight of hand by Giles and the few remaining Watchers… but most of the under-sixteens were still at home where they belonged. 

Of the sixteen-to-twenty set… /We can only pray they wouldn’t be a problem for now./

The under-twelves were unlikely to be (girls appeared to be Called any time after puberty. They’d found Slayers as young as eight or nine, depending, which was nuts, but there it was; and what had the Council done with the ones that young back in the day? Scary thought). Granted, that set might be trouble later, of course, as they grew into themselves, but at the current moment… /We’re not the Council. We’re not gonna steal babies from their families and rope them into a dangerous, life-wrecking gig against their will. Not especially when we have plenty of age-appropriate young women on the roster already./ 

There were, unfortunately, a good six or seven hundred teenage-to-early-twenties girls who had not joined up, for various reasons; girls running around loose out there, ready to kill at the drop of a hat if a vamp or demon looked sideways at them. /But there’s nothing we can do about that right now. We’ll just have to pray it doesn’t happen before all this goes down, or it could throw this whole thing off./ Especially with this idiotic military nut-factory trying to put everything every Slayer ever did or would ever do on the head of the Organization.

/What did we do, really, when we woke the Line in every girl ever?/

She couldn’t think of that now, though. One problem at a time. Problem one was letting the locals know this wasn’t an invasion or a task force or anything, and that meant heading out to see their friend Z to spread the word. 

Hence, the minute they were assured the apportioning of personnel was going well, Buffy and Spike peeled off from the command trio to head out the side door, along with Betta George and the rest of their team who wished to be a part of the offensive, Faith at their sides. They promptly marched off into the city to notify the local demon-leaders that they were about to be inundated with Slayers. /All the better to keep up good relations./ They were welcomed at Z’s spot, of course. It seemed the best place from which to spread the word about what was going down. 

What they did was spread a minor panic. 

Hoping to calm the incipient, minor riot, they left Betta George there to continue the goodwill-ing, and a still very chill Faith as interlocutor, while they headed back to the Hyperion to coordinate. Behind them remained a gaping, horrified Thurgald, snapping at his peons and demanding that “Rick, go talk to Desmond”, and “Anzi, get out of here, go tell Buzar what’s going down! Go!”

Hopefully within the next few hours, other local leaders would be willing to receive them for talks about the upcoming options. If all went well, they’d have their backing, if only because the alternative sounded a great deal less appealing, vis a vis being confronted in future with an uppity army with a hardon for demon-destruction. 

Gris and Rinne departed from the bar at the same time, determined to submerge themselves in the local population and keep their ears to the ground. Nina went to see her family. Buffy and Spike stationed themselves in the hotel to coordinate between the two moving parts, and waited to hear from Faith that anyone ‘across the tracks’ had decided to take their deal.

The situation hung on a breath. Nothing could move until Twilight attacked. No one from the demon world could, of course, be the aggressors. The military had to attack first. 

And, they did. The missile came in exactly as Riley had reported it would; magicked to stay off regular radar so that the Brits wouldn’t complain. Whatever else they were, these Twilight guys weren’t fools. They didn’t have the mandate to cause an international incident by firing on an ally. 

Simone’s bunch were crazed, with chips on their shoulders and something to prove, but they did what they were tasked to do despite. They stayed long enough to ensure the trajectory could be nothing else but the Organization’s HQ, then grabbed the recording device, ensuring there’d be proof of the attack, and made it out of the castle before the missile landed, heading for the nearby bunker one of Wil’s students had delved for them with magicks just outside of the castle, on the bluff. Within an hour of the attack they were in LA reporting for duty; a little worse for wear and mildly deaf, but bearing photographic evidence of the attack; including pics of the smoking ruins that had been Xander’s lovingly restored historical site, now an exploded-out shell. 

Buffy had to admit to a pang at seeing it, whether she’d lived there long at all. The site had, after all, represented not a little hard work and sacrifice, and a lot of hope and unifying striving for singular purpose. Not to mention the whole Scourge thing, which had been the hell of a career-changing battle when it came to setting up her, Spike, and the Organization to being seen by a lot of demonkind as worth listening to.

All gone now, though.

“So, now they’ve moved on us, we can go after ‘em, right?” Simone was demanding, all but dancing with rage and on an adrenaline high as she finished handing over her evidence. 

Buffy opened her mouth preparatory to convincing the girl to stand down somehow—god knew how—but a recently-returned Faith beat her to it. “Chill,” she cautioned, without even looking up from the pics she was scanning through on the camera’s screen. “These military dipshits can’t just make the first move somewhere in another country before we hit ‘em. They have to be the aggressors on camera; somehow where it looks wicked bad for them. Preferably on national TV. We need to get everything set up so that when we land, we’re daring ‘em to come out to face us, because we’re pulling on their dicks and they can’t stand it, they have to show, because they’re big boys with big toys, and they can’t let a bunch of _girls_ win, right?” She lowered the camera to smile at Simone’s group; a predatory smile, full of plans. “And then when they do, we’ll call our friends, and all the cameras will show…” 

She handed the camera over to Willow, who had finally stumbled out of bed in the last hour. “And, fuck; and they’re gonna look like such a bunch of sad sacks when they get caught on tape trying to wipe out a bunch of chicks with swords, and their demon friends who probably aren’t even armed except for their teeth and crap, when they’ll probably have, like, howitzers… And we’re gonna come out of this smelling like roses. And the whole goddamn world is gonna spend the next ten years talking about how the US Military tried to wipe out demonkind because it was a bunch of scared little boys.” 

Willow, busy loading the photos onto her laptop, had a faint smile on her weary lips as she nodded along. Xander, only just now seeing what had been done to their former HQ, groaned. Faith ignored him to turn her head and catch Buffy’s eye briefly, letting it be known that she was exceedingly on side now, if it meant seeing that little show. She was almost brutally aroused at the thought. Buffy could tell by the way she was breathing, the way her eyes glittered as she turned back to Simone. “It’s gonna be fuckin’ epic. So just hold up and wait for it.”

Simone’s expression had started out mulish and unwilling. By the end of Faith’s blunt speech, though, she was grinning broadly and looked ready to chew through steel. “Oh, my, godican’tWAIT for that! What do you guys need from me, I am _so_ there!”

They gave Simone charge of a small unit off to one side, who would have the dubious honor of protecting the wide left flank, in case the enemy tried any sneaky side-maneuvers, to flank them around the far side of the crater. It would keep her and her little band of cowgirls out of trouble.

Rona volunteered to lead the group who would protect Harmony’s delegation, and/or any other media who arrived, should said imperative folk be coerced or inveigled to join in the festivities. “I’ve got my girls trained. None of ‘em is gonna go after any vamp, famous or not, unless I give the word. There won’t be any incidents, I promise.”

“Awesome. You got it. Vi will back you.” 

“Perfect.” Rona headed off to discuss tactics with Vi.

Buffy turned to Satsu, who had till this point avoided her entirely. “Hey, Satsu.”

“Hey, General.” The woman wouldn’t look her in the eye. Oh, jeez. “Listen. Right now I need you. You’re my right-hand woman when it comes to organizing the troops, and I know you can do it. You need to take the front line. You got this.”

Satsu nodded. “You got it, General.” 

Buffy drew in a breath, exhaled hard. “I believe in you, Satsu.”

Satsu stilled for a moment, then lifted her head finally, met Buffy’s eyes. There was pain there, but also a kind of gratitude… and, finally, acceptance. “Thank you, Buffy,” she answered softly, and turned away to head over and discuss tactics with Renee and Rowena.

“Robin.”

Robin moved up to join her. “Yeah.” 

“You think you could back Satsu up the middle, on the right? On the inside, in case the bastards try to come around and come at us from the inside while we’re focused on the PR part of the equation?”

He nodded slowly. “Gotcha, Buffy.”

“Thanks.” She turned to the leader of the Barcelona cell. “Donna, can you and the Azores and Brittany take left, with Privela? I need you girls to stay inside of Simone, and bulk up the left side of the middle.” Privela could help the Barcelona leader do more than that, if necessary, small cell or no. She was, after all, a veteran of the Scourge War.

“ _Ciertamente, General_.”

“Great, thank you.” Buffy turned to Andrew. “You and your girls have PR duty. Back up Sara. Anything happens inside Rona’s line, you’re last line of defense. Make it look good. We’re protecting the famous vampire from terrible humans who are trying to kill her, and us. Use your witches; anything it takes.” She caught his wide-eyed stare, held it. “This is as much a show as it is a battle, Andrew. Hopefully more so. So make it as theatrical as you possibly can. You’re good at that. It’s your strength. Now is your time to shine.”

Andrew straightened slowly and nodded. “Your wish is my command, _Mon Capitan_. I shall fulfill your requirements to my fullest capacity, o’ lover of the Champion Vampyre.”

Buffy refrained, as per usual from sighing so hard she coughed out a lung in his face, or from patting him over the head and sending him to bed without his dinner. Sometimes Andrew was too ridiculous for his own skin, but he had his uses. 

Turning to Faith, Buffy lifted a brow. Faith answered her as wordlessly. Things were as prepped as they could be when it came to the ‘allies’ sitch. 

Nodding, she swung back to center. Time for the last and toughest set of orders. “Giles.”

Her former Watcher stepped up to join her; within her orbit for the first time since early spring. Courtney, hovering in his shadow, looked anxious enough to wring her hands as her eyes darted from him to her and back again. Buffy didn’t bother to spare the worried young Slayer a glance as she faced down her recalcitrant father-figure. His second would have to deal with the tensions. “Are we good?” she asked him, and waited expectantly. This was it. Down to the wire. 

She needed to know if she could count on him. 

Giles closed his eyes for a moment, behind his glasses, expression strained. The moment hung on a razor’s edge; a tiny fulcrum that accounted for so much. Such a tiny thing… and everything.

Somewhere behind her back, only a foot or so away, she could feel Spike; as ever, ready to support her when and if needed. It was the bulwark she’d put herself against since she couldn’t remember when. It gave her the extra push she needed to keep her eyes clear and open on Giles’ face as he opened his own eyes finally to meet her gaze. “Buffy,” he answered, pained, his breath held… then sighed and exhaled long and slow. “As ever… you were right, and I was quite visibly wrong. We’re about to face into a force that seeks to annihilate everything about us, and the world to which we belong. You found a way to balance these two needs. To find a thin gray-area to walk between them, so that we can all survive; because, as ever, you surpass me and everything I have ever been taught. I cannot even say that I am proud of you anymore. You quite literally overawe me. And I am so very, very sorry, yet again, for the pain I have caused you with my own stubborn, dogged determination to hide my head in the sands, my refusal to accept that the world has changed, and that I must change with it. And I do hope that someday you may forgive me.”

Buffy could breathe again, as she moved to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, held him close… and felt his arms lower slowly to come around her, bring her into his embrace. So many times, this had happened now. On one level, she could never trust completely; not anymore. But she could always hope this was the last time. And for now, with so many tensions coming in to break her, one less was a relief and a treasure. 

They could, any one of them, be lost today. Best to accept apologies, and give them. To take love where it was offered, in times like this. Just in case. The rest could be worked out if there was a tomorrow. “I love you, Giles.”

“You honor me with that love, Buffy. I rather don’t know if I deserve it anymore, but I very much hope to try to earn it again; and soon.”

Behind her, she could feel Spike relax as they parted; glad for her that this pain, at least, was for the moment addressed. “Can you and Courtney back us, behind Satsu? We need to make sure the center holds.”

“Absolutely.” Giles’ eyes rose to Spike’s, very briefly, dropped again, and he nodded, his lined face full of emotion. “Anything you need.”

“Alright.” Turning away, to Spike, she nodded. “Let’s tell Z and the others that we’re ready to go.”

Spike answered her with an inviting tilt of his head, and she walked with him to meet the leaders of the other half of their army, standing in the lobby.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The song "Crazy On You" by Heart featured prominently for me in the writing of this chapter.

(Quote by David Mitchell)

Ok, so the utter stupidity of the comix writers, in the canon version of this, cannot be overstated, and i have no cope for it. Since when does Buffy's strategy include running away over and over again and letting the enemy choose the ground for them? I mean, they were getting buffeted over and over again left and right, sure, and she was exhausted and confused, but wth (everything she did in "s8" was so OOC i can't even). And the ending battle, with them letting themselves be drained of their powers (???) so they’d be seen as no threat and maybe the army would leave them alone (???), making themselves smaller... since when is that EVER a Buffy trait?! (plus weird giant gods or something. I mean, it was good to see Oz again, but the rest was wtf.)


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry to be late!!! This week got crazy with a lot of RL stuff. Working like mad to catch up on enough new chapters to be ahead of y'all, now I'm not working from a phone anymore (!!!!), and then hopefully I can work like mad to catch up on all your lovely and generous comments! In the meantime, here's a bit more.

  
"Life is a hard battle anyway, and if we laugh and sing a little as we fight the good fight of freedom, it makes it all go easier." 

* * *

They stood ranged around the wide, ragged, ringed eastern edge of the hellmouth, between Drextalcorp, the low hills east of what was left of Parma Park and Millers Woods, and the northern edges of Montecito. The Slayers were arrayed according to the prearranged battle-plan, stationed in cell-based groupings, while Buffy and the other leaders huddled beneath one of those four-posted tent-top deals that people put up as shelters when they did vending and stuff. Theirs was currently functioning as a makeshift command-tent and vampire-protection-center until sunset commenced in about two hours. “Everybody knows their places, right?” Buffy asked them all, eyeing their variously anxious or tight or determined expressions before they headed out to take up their places the heads of their units. “We’re all clear on the plan?  
  
“Crystal,” Rona announced. She shot a swift glance over at Andrew, who was standing off to one side looking like he might vomit at any moment. “Man the booth. We’ll be right behind you.”

“Right,” Andrew agreed, nodding uneasily, and shot an anxious glance over at the exceedingly placid-looking Sara. “And, um… when is she gonna show, again?”

“Soon as I phone her,” Spike repeated this portion of things for about the third time. “There has to be something worth filming first, before we bring in the media, innit? No sense calling in her and her lot before the soldier boys have shown up.” 

“Makes sense,” Sara agreed, with a nod for their media savvy, and pried a pocket-notebook from her rear pocket, along with a pen. Making some kind of brief notation therein, she resettled it, pursed her lips. The lowering sun made her tawny skin look gilded as she turned back to Andrew. “We’ll set up with an angle on the opposition’s expected position, so the minute we bring her in it’s the first thing her crew sees. The second she shows, I’ll position myself in front of her, so that I can double as both forward protection and liaison, while you liaise from the rear with your squad.”

“A… alright.”

Spike’s face creased in distaste for the entire situation as he turned back to Willow. “Yeah, speaking of that, Captain Cardboard got back to you yet about an ETA?”

Willow looked a little worried as she tapped a few keys on her ever-present laptop. “He hasn’t touched base since yesterday. Honestly, I’m kind of wondering if they’ve found him.”

/This whole show’s a very elaborate trap if they have./ Buffy tried not to think about that eventuality. It made her nauseous. 

“Or, maybe he’s just having to lay low so they don’t.” Anxious eyes rose to meet theirs. “The last thing we need is for them to find out the snack we’ve laid out up here for them is actually us baiting a trap…”

Spike’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, how do we know Whitebread hasn’t told them what’s lyin’ in wait, so they won’t show? Could see him falterin’, last minute, once he realized what the plan was, Buffy, an’ what it might mean for the military…”

Buffy shook her head once, decisively. “He doesn’t know the full details. I made sure of it for that very reason. I don’t want him to have to deal with any kind of crisis of conflicting loyalty. All he knows is what we told him from the start; that we’re going to face them down with a few demons on our side in a show of solidarity, in an attempt to avoid open conflict.” She touched his hand lightly, let her body bump the taut edges of him. “Do you think I’d hang the success of this on _Riley?_ ”

Spike was briefly silent, then turned to her, regret written on his features. “Sorry, Love. Just on tenterhooks.”

“I know it. Don’t worry. This’ll work.”

“Yeah.” He still sounded doubtful, but at least he was there, with her again.

Buffy turned back to the rest of the army’s under-generals. “Are we ready, then?”

She was answered with nods from all concerned.

Turning briskly away from the semicircle, she firmly faced their most recent recruit. “And you’re ready, Beck?”

The girl they’d picked up last night from LA—the one Spike had known from Mosaic—nodded firmly… and then, startlingly, fire exploded from her clenched fists, coating her hands to the wrists. “No one’s getting in here before sunset. He’ll stay safe for you till he can leave the tent.”

Buffy nodded back, though she felt her lips flatten. “Just don’t get near Spike with those.”

Spike’s eyes caught on hers. “Beck and I’ve fought together before, pet. I know how to stay clear.”

Buffy refrained from retorting sharply that it wasn’t his proximity-awareness she was worried about as she swung around to close with the other set of leaders; the ones standing in an arc on the far side of the covering. The ones who had come here on a special invite, and the ones on whom this entire engagement depended. “We all want you to know how much we appreciate your willingness to join in this… demonstration,” she began, her eyes sliding over their many varied faces and forms. “We’re well aware that the situation can be the cause of great discomfort; on many levels. And not only because we’re beginning in the sunlight, and because you’re willingly setting yourselves into proximity with a whole army of Slayers. I can only give you my word—and Spike, his—that none of you will be harmed by anyone on this side of the line…”

A tall, horned Vibraxian drew itself up, catching her attention with quiet dignity. “We’re not only bringing ourselves to your attention, but to theirs. Will there be recourse to protections, if there are reprisals from the humans?”

/Oh. Damn./ Buffy quite honestly hadn’t considered that angle. But she should have. And, to be frank… 

/Shit./ “You’re here because we asked you. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. You came on the strength of a reputation based entirely on events that are at best equivocal. I personally hope to build on this event for future positive interactions; so, yes.” /Put up or shut up, Buffy./ And when it got right down to it… she had always wanted more than just one day’s cooperation out of this. She wanted to build a new world. This was just the beginning. And if that meant making a gesture—or even an example—then she would damn well do it. “For my part, I intend to make this a fair exchange. If there are reprisals from the military, or from human governments, for your participation in today’s action, I will see to it we do everything in our power to minimize the damage to you and yours. Though, admittedly that will be easier if we have some sort of roster, even if that’s a post-dated document, of who’s involved. But,” she finished, while her people shifted behind her, made uneasy by the broad promise of assistance and cooperation beyond the day, “I intend, and hope, to keep this a bloodless event. Posturing; nothing more.”

The Vibraxian nodded. “Can’t ask more than that,” it replied, and stepped quietly back into the ranks. 

“Buffy,” Giles began, hesitant but concerned, “I do rather think…”

Buffy lifted one hand to forestall any protests. She didn’t bother to turn her head. “They _came_ , Giles. This whole thing hinges on their cooperation. They’re part of the team, and deserve every courtesy.”

“Yes, quite.” He subsided, sounding, if possible, a tiny bit chastened.

Next to Giles, Robin made a faint noise that seemed to hover somewhere in between disgruntled and darkly amused; a cynical ‘where do we go from here, how low will we stoop’ kind of sound… but he knew better than to voice his negativity in current company, and kept his mouth shut. 

Buffy waited, but there were no further interruptions from the peanut gallery. “Alright,” she finished, nodding at everyone present. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The Organization leaders headed out, nodding back at her like automatons as they departed. Some looked determined, some freaked, but they went, each to their separate assigned corridors. Willow and Xan, of course, remained centrally-located, there in the tent, to variously organize magickal interventions and to coordinate things—Wil had a small magicks circle set up, with three other witches arrayed around her in a low, cross-legged and murmuring circle around a little design set into the dirt, made of spilt salt. Spike was to remain, of course, till sundown, when he’d join Buffy running back and forth to coordinate the two lines. Until then, he would set up the whole Harmony media circus, and do his best to help with the coordination from the centrally-located tent, with walkies; especially as pertained to the demon-relations part of things. Anything to help, since Buffy would be running herself ragged dancing back and forth between the front and Betta George, who at the last minute had agreed to act as telepathic messenger for them to the picturesque demonic rearguard. 

\--I was worried at first that it was gonna be a bloodbath,-- he’d told them earlier, back at the Hyperion, --so I figured I should just stay home. But then I thought, if you have me, maybe I could help keep it bloodless. So I’ll stay… until it gets messy. Then, no offense, but I’m out.--

Buffy would take it, since honestly she’d expected him to bail as soon as they got the locals on their side. It would be way fair, considering the last battle he’d joined in on their part had ended with him a giant fish-patty under Illyria’s massive, primordial god-king foot. Buffy would probably take the first portal back to Spain, herself, if she were him, and end up so deep undersea that it’d take sonar to find him. As such, she was frankly super-touched that he was even still willing to help them at all. 

Still, if this turned to an actual fight, she truly wondered if they’d ever see him again. The poor guy had definitely been through enough psychic pain for two lifetimes. /As have all of us./ 

Turning to Spike, as the demon-leaders backed out of the tent and shuffled off toward their lines, Buffy just stood for a moment, eyes steady on her guy. He returned her look, his expression saying everything they needed to say. She hoped hers did as well. After all, they’d said everything else they needed to tell each other last night, at the Hyperion; just like they had before any number of other battles staged from that building, before; in a literal hell. “Hey,” she heard herself say, finally, and lifted the Scythe to her shoulder. “You better stay out of the bright, shiny lights this time, okay? Because if you get even a blister this time around…”

A tiny, knowing smile cocked one corner of his mouth, rueful with acceptance of everything she was and wasn’t saying under those words. “I know. You’ll have my arse.” The smile fled, and he sobered, eyes liquid on hers. “Love you, Buffy.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

They remained looking for another long moment, then she turned away without another word to head out and see to it their two lines were arranged with enough space between them so that there would be no incidents.

Twenty minutes later, give or take, they were ranged and ready. The demons who’d volunteered for this fiasco spread out behind the Slayer lines in a wide, uneven arc over the flat desert landscape between the crater and Montecito, a good hundred and fifty strong and representing at least twelve (relatively peaceful, if alarming in cast) species. Granted, most could put up a decent enough fight if pushed, but they were also as a general rule the sort of demons who tended to mind their own damn business unless provoked. Hence, most of the Slayers knew that this bunch weren’t worth scrapping with unless someone was dumb enough to start shit, but to the uninitiated, the whole bunch looked dangerous as hell. It was an impressive show of demonic force; essentially exactly what the doctor ordered, and thank god they’d met with Z before now. 

The Thurgald leader had helped them immensely. By touching in with him first, they’d put out feelers through him to demon-leaders as far-flung as San Diego, San Bernardino, Riverside, freaking _Lancaster_. Between Gris and Rinne, known to half of LA as part of the Beverly Hills leadership back in the day, and Faith, well known there herself from her time in the city helping out at Angel Investigations, among other things, and of course the whole cachet of Scourge-destruction and Lord-and-Championing during Hell-A, they’d garnered an impressive volunteer subset of demoninity who’d been willing to, if not fight at their backs, at least come up and stand behind the Slayer force and look muscle-y. “A lot of ‘em are anxious about this whole ‘face off with the military’ deal, is the thing. No offense to you two,” Z had put in. “I mean, we’re all still getting used to, you know, being out of the little demons’ closet. It’s risky, showing up like this. But the plan is sound enough that they’ll hang till it looks like a battle. Then, probably at least half will bail if it comes to a fight…”

“Fair,” Spike had answered, bland and nonjudgmental. After all, a good number of the volunteers from the demon side of the tracks weren’t exactly ye standard combatants anyway. They looked good from a human perspective, but they were in it for the visual spectacle, and for the loyalty points, in case it earned them better treatment later, or favors from Slayerdom in future. That, or, if they were very mixed, they felt they owed it to the ‘great Scourge-killers’-slash-‘the demon-lord and his champion’. That was about it. 

It was a showpiece, not an army. /i.e., we better pray to God this freaking works./

Coming up to where Faith stood with Betta George, near Z and his fellow demon-leaders, currently stationed on a little stone outcropping about three hundred yards from the closest Slayer position, Buffy lifted her brows. “We good?”

Faith, who was smoking at the moment, shrugged and threw down her butt, to grind it out under her boot. “Far as I know.”

Buffy turned to the demons and nodded at them. “Alright. Well, here goes nothing.” She shot a short glance at Betta George and let the public thought rise in her mind. /Are they committed, or still skittish?/

\--As committed as they’re gonna get. I’d roll now if I were you, before they bail.--

/Right./ Turning, Buffy headed back the way she’d come, shooting another thought out, this one directed toward Willow and Xander, along the linkage they’d forged during their ‘hand-heart-mind’ days, and which Wil had reopened this morning for the purposes of battle coordination. /We’re on./

\--Ready,-- they agreed.

The air rippled all around them as Willow dropped the cloaking spell that had hidden the entirety of the Slayer-army-and-demon-presence from Twilight’s radar, by using local atmospheric conditions to create a sort of massive ‘mirage’ effect all around this whole side of the hellmouth crater. 

Buffy smiled faintly to herself when she thought she heard the faintest sharp, high, repetitive sound in the distance. The sound, she thought, of an emergency claxon. /And, we’ve been picked up on radar, or whatever./

/Maybe next time don’t attack us with magickal missiles, you dufuses./

The soldiers started to appear almost immediately, marching out from the direction of Drextalcorp in ordered ranks, like clockwork. It was kinda cool, actually, to watch them appear out of pretty much nowhere, as they opened the time-displacement doodad of theirs to let the troops through. “Check it out,” she murmured to Xander, having arrived back at the ‘command tent’ just in time to witness the response to their presence.

“Well, that’s a thing,” Xander answered, sounding awed at the way the soldiers just. Kept. Pouring. Out.

A hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. Damn. 

How many did they have smooshed into that thing? Or… Heck. How much of the stupid crater had they hollowed out and turned it into a freaking underground base, a la the Initiative? 

Stupid wannabes.

It wasn’t just soldiers, of course. There were those covered troop-transport vehicles. There were Hummers. There were those one armored vehicles from Iraq; what had Xander called them? Strykers. There was even a helicopter or two. 

These guys weren’t kidding around. 

Buffy started to get a teensy bit anxious, and was super glad that they had a magickal shield cast over the top of their sitch. 

Within fifteen minutes, a whole freaking military _presence_ was ranged across from them, over there about a few hundred yards away, on the northeast side of the crater; at least a thousand men strong and seriously packed with the hardware. Not a few of the guys in the Twilight group were crouched behind a sort of natural berm made of earth that had been thrown up during the cataclysm Spike’s former demise had caused, each pair holding a sort of tube, and loading them with…

“Well, shoot,” Xander muttered. “Those are mortars.” He shot Buffy a seriously worried look. “They’re loaded for bear, Buff. This is no training exercise. Their leader twitches his nose, and they’re gonna fire; and those things are pinpoint-accurate for three to five kilometers.” He seemed to check himself, shook his head. “As in, we’re screwed if they do even one barrage.”

/This is it./ Buffy turned to Spike, nodded. “Okay. Call her.”

Expression stony, Spike lifted his phone to his ear, and dialed the number he’d unfortunately been given, entirely against his will, that night at the club a short while back, during a bubbly and ditzy stretch of high-on-life conversation with his ex. It rang only twice, before Buffy heard the answer, she was standing so close. That, and the way Harmony talked on the phone was in one of those falsely high-pitched and bright, loud phone-voices that carried well beyond the receiver in question. ‘Spike? Why are you calling me? I just barely woke up…’ A yawn. ‘And, like, I heard you were in town, causing trouble, but…’

Spike cut her off before she could get going. “Hey, Harm. You want an exclusive for your show? Because we’ve got one for you. Come on up to Sunnyhell. Bring your camera-people, and anyone else you know who needs a scoop...”

‘Oh, like I need whatever you’ve got going. I’m a big star now, and ugh! Like I wanna get all that dust on my clothes! And it’s daylight! I could fry! Besides, nothing’s happening up there anymore! It’s a huge giant hole in the ground. Nothing…’

“You’d be surprised, pet. This’ll be the story of your life. And you know if I’m here, we’ve made accommodation. You’ll be safe as houses.” 

Something in Spike’s very serious tones must’ve gotten through, because Harmony was brought up short. ‘You better not be messing with me, Spike. I’m a very busy woman, now, you know. I’m important. I have…’ 

“So’s this, luv. And I know you are. ‘S why I’m callin’ you, and not bleedin' _Hard Copy_.”

A profound silence, then, ‘You think I’m as good as _Hard Copy?’_

To Spike’s credit, he didn’t guffaw, and kept his face straight. “You get this story, Harm, and they’ll be talkin’ about you well into next year. You’ll get enough exposure that people will start considering you a serious bloody journalist.”

‘Oooohhhhh… _Really?’_

“Swear to God, pet.”

‘Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can…’

“We’ll make it faster. Go to the Hyperion. We’ll portal you up.”

Another amazed pause. ‘This is, like, a big deal, isn’t it? I mean, I heard through the grapevine that you two were maybe up to something big, but…’

“Yeah, it’s that sodding important. So get there, and you’ll have the story of your life.”

‘Okay, just let me get my camera guy and we’ll be there ASAP.’ Buffy didn’t think she’d ever heard her ex-schoolmate sound so serious.

“Right. See you soon, then.”

He turned to Buffy as he ended the call, lips briefly pursed. “She heard the rumor that we were in town and something big was going down. She’s on her way.”

“Excellent.” Buffy batted her eyes at him. “See? It pays to bang blondes…”

He sent her a mock-growl. “I’ll kill you later for that one.”

“I love you too.”

Fifteen minutes passed. The nervous tension grew and the military presence across the field from them gained strength and dug in, though so far, no one fired or anything. Which could be because their commanders were not sure whether to commit, here on American soil. Or it could be because Riley’s internal attempts to undermine Twilight had borne fruit, and some of the soldiers over there were at least momentarily questioning their orders, now they were face to face with a bunch of teenage girls holding nothing more dangerous than swords. /I thought it was a good idea to leave the guns out of sight./ When a modern soldier was told to fire on a relative child—and girl, for some of them—carrying a freaking hatchet, it didn’t take a genius to figure that they might quail at least a little, no matter how much brainwashing they’d gotten to convince them that the ‘enemy’ was a dehumanized monster. 

So far, they were in a standoff. /Hopefully we can get out of this without any bloodshed./

The quarter-hour up, Willow seemed to sense readiness from the other side of the still-extant portal in the Hyperion. With an absent wave of her hand, a ripple appeared in the smaller canopy over to the right, where Andrew and his small group were standing, just outside of the demarcation zone. When the ripple vanished, Harmony, a cameraman, someone holding equipment that looked exceedingly heavy, and some other person dancing around her holding a make-up brush, stood under the shaded overhang. They all froze, gaping, as they realized they’d been transported miles over the California landscape to the edge of the famous ‘Sunnydale sinkhole’. Then, swiveling, they took in the presence of hundreds of military folk on one side of the divide… and hundreds of girls bearing mostly medieval weaponry, backed by honest-to-god demons on the other side. 

Moments later it registered that they—a lone media delegation—took up the nomansland in the center. 

The makeup person was the first to react, dodging behind the camera guy with a squeal so loud it could be heard there in the command tent. “Ohmygodwhatsgoingon?”

Andrew’s team immediately closed around behind them. Andrew marched right up with Sara at his shoulder. It seemed that his flair for the dramatic had kicked in to overcome his fear of the ‘vampyre’, for while Sara did her usual brisk debriefing, their most flamboyant Watcher made himself available at Harmony’s elbow with a bow, and introduced himself in what looked to be his usual courtly manner. Having heard Sara’s explanation of the sitch, Harmony turned to him, mouth open, eyes wide, clearly stunned at what she was hearing. Her head pivoted to take in the Twilight bunch, swung back to the demon contingent, then the Slayer lines. 

The moment hung on a dime. Then, it dropped. 

To Harmony’s credit, once she decided, she never even paused. She just lifted her mic, turned, whirled her free arm at her cameraman, hissed something probably along the lines of, ‘roll it!’… and began talking furiously as she reported what she saw.

The supposed airhead vampire and former Cordette was about to get her chance to be a serious newsperson.

Behind Harmony’s team, guarded by Andrew’s small pack of hand-picked Slayers, Rona’s cell ranged around the smaller shelter; bristling, in constant motion, and prepared to defend the broadcast from any military intervention. And beyond them, the military bunch went into a frenzy. 

Buffy could see the small knot that was the command group of this bunch of yahoos huddling and pointing at her, possibly identifying the player as one of the ‘unclean and evil’ bunch, or at least worried about what the camera crew was filming when it came to their clandestine unit. She hoped their presence would put a crimp in any plans to actually fire on her people. 

In the meantime, she had other plans to set in motion.

Swinging around to where Willow’s laptop stood prepped and ready, Buffy hit ‘send’ on the video evidence of the unprovoked attack on the Slayer HQ yesterday evening. They’d timed the delivery of this evidence of first blood being drawn by the military so that it would land along with Harmony’s broadcast, piggybacking on her signal. The hope was that when her people received her first impressions of the situation up here, they’d also get the Slayers’ clear and present reason for being arrayed up here in the first place. /Because we were bombed out, and had nowhere else to go./ 

If Sara and Andrew had done their work correctly, mention of the attack on the Scotland base would have made it into one of Harmony’s ‘bytes’. If they were lucky, said byte would catch the attention of someone at one of the networks, and it would become breaking news. Harmony’s continued chatter would give the stills of the radar screens and photos of the smoking ruins context, and offer explanations for what had been, until now, probably just this great big freaking mystery over there in the UK. /Mystery solved, boys. Thank goodness for spells that connect laptops randomly to the internet when you’re way out in the middle of freaking nowhere./ Seriously; there was literally a spell for everything.

The computer crackled again as, recipient of another spell, it began to pipe in the incipient broadcast Harmony was sending forth from their tense standoff. Buffy watched in fascination as their one-vampire public relations team, dressed cutely in a businesslike mini and a double-breasted peach blazer, breathlessly informed the viewing public that a group wearing the American flag and using equipment belonging to the US Army was gathering around the edges of the former Sunnydale. That they were facing down a contingent of Slayers and demons armed with nothing but self-defense weapons—mostly swords and their own body-parts—who had gathered in protest of that group’s recent bombing of the Slayers’ main headquarters in Scotland. “No knowing what the Scottish government… Oh. The British, sorry, thanks Rick; thinks of a bomb being sent to blow up something in their country, by the way. I think these soldiers have been very bad boys…”

/Man, Harmony, you may have been a pain in the ass in high school and whenever, and you don’t know geography from a hole in the head, but you’re useful as hell right now, I’ll give you that!/

The broadcast was just getting really interesting when it was interrupted by a sharp, strident buzz, and the video feed automatically minimized, to be replaced with Riley’s distraught face. His mouth was moving, wide and shocked. His voice kicked in belatedly, the victim of a short delay. ‘What are you _doing_ , Buffy?’ he all but shrieked. He was wearing the same uniform as the rest of those idiots out there, of course, since he was currently in deep cover as part of the Twilight group, leaving Buffy to wonder where exactly he was at the moment, and what the heck he was even using to communicate with them while he was in the field. 

/Freaking military technology./ “Hey, Riley,” she breezed. “Long time no see…”

‘…You trying to start an international incident?’ he demanded, talking right over her in his shock. ‘The military’s gonna have to disavow this whole thing once people start looking into the bombing; how can you embarrass your country like that, by splashing evidence all over everywhere that we attacked an ally on sovereign soil…’

Buffy rolled her eyes. “A, _I_ didn’t start anything, _they_ did. B, they can disavow all they want, but it wasn’t like the people in the nearby towns were gonna not notice that someone blew up an old castle like three miles from where they lived, even if the satellites missed it; which I doubt. Twilight is a terrorist group, who’s spent the last however long trying to convince everybody that my Organization is a terrorist group.” She smiled sweetly at him. “We’re just setting the record straight, now we finally have evidence. It’s not our fault they’re being funded by your military. And, C, I’m sorry to spring this on you, but a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta to survive. And these jerks hit us first…”

‘Okay, but to directly attack the US Military with a media blitz, when these guys are only responding to a direct threat on American soil…’

His stunned amazement was more than a little undeserved, she thought, considering what they were facing. She didn’t need the judgment. “They’re trying to wipe demonkind off the face of the earth, Riley,” she bit off, flat and frank. “Which, by the way, they need to learn is impossible, since the second they did it, another doorway would open and a whole new bunch of colonists would come in from some other dimension to pick up the unused territory. Which you guys learned before, in the Initiative. They’re outclassed and functioning off of incorrect information. If you think about it, we’re doing ‘em a favor…”

_‘Buffy_ …’

Buffy waved him off. “I gotta go. I have a PR campaign to wage. Talk to you later!” And she exed out of the window showing Riley’s shocked, all-American face. She had other things to deal with right now than exes with uncertain loyalties and conflicting, impractical ideologies. /Hopefully at least his psy-ops stuff comes into play here, and those guys over there waver at least a little when the order comes to open fire. We don’t need any freaking casualties today./

“Who was that dude?” Gunn asked, idly spinning his sword in his fist as he waited for something to happen. 

“Buffy’s former,” Spike told the other man blandly, and for lack of anything better to do, lit a cigarette. “Went undercover with that lot for us, to pay off a debt.”

/And how/ Buffy thought, eyes darting endlessly across the field and watching for any aggressive acts. If those fools over there started anything, it would be on camera now. 

/Though, to be fair, if our side does, same goes./ She had to pray that her squad leaders were going do their part to keep their girls under wraps for a while longer during this tense impasse.

Best if it was the other guys, if it was going to happen.

“Huh. Seems like kind of a tool.” 

“Sure does,” Beck agreed, dancing a little on her toes, like a gymnast or a boxer; an image helped along by her tightly pulled-back hair. The tension in her frame and her pugilistic demeanor made her look way too ready to start those hands of hers on fire again.

Gunn grinned at her and twirled the sword again. “So, you think we’re gonna get to fight at all today?”

“The plan is to not, if we can help it,” Buffy reminded him blandly without taking her eyes off the hopefully-not-a-battlefield. 

“Okay, but we came all the way out here. Can’t we at least go find Angel and kick his ass for starting this whole stupid thing?”

“Always did like the way you think, Charlie-boy,” Spike drawled.

Buffy rolled her eyes hard and focused her mind for a sec to check in with the other half of the army. /We all good, George?/

\--The natives are getting restless, with all that firepower pointed at us,-- George admitted, sounding a little strained. --Your girl and I are working double-time to convince ‘em that this isn’t gonna become a fight. Facing down your bunch is one thing; you know, the law of tooth and claw? But facing down a bunch of guys with helicopters and whatever is a whole other deal.--

/Yeah. I know. Tell ‘em I’m all over it, will you please? Remind ‘em that we have the cameras on ‘em now, and they’re highly unlikely to move on us with a broadcast going out making ‘em look bad enough already./

\--We’re doing our best.-- 

/Thank you/ Buffy answered, and hoped like hell she wasn’t lying to him. George sounded strained enough by what he was doing. Just holding that half of their army—their trump card, as it were—in place was a full-time job, with all that uncertainty and nervousness rolling around. If this became a rout, the whole thing could fall through. /We can’t lose George and the demons, or we lose the whole damn thing./

They owed the guy, like, his own private, personal, emotionally-soundproofed bay or lake or something after this.

The sound of regular, jogging footfalls struck her ears as she mused, and Groo appeared in the tent, dusty and grinning, clad in some kind of breastplate-and-greaves getup. “Champion Buffy! A fine day for a battle! The enemy is well-armed, but filled with doubt. It is a fine thing to see. Do you think they will, in fact, turn tail and rout, now that they are faced with the evidence of their own despicable cowardice?”

It was tough not to smile, with the Groosalugg around to rub his endless optimism all over everything. “I hope so, Groo,” Buffy admitted. “It would be the best outcome.”

Groo turned slightly downcast. “A regrettable day, when no glorious battle ensues… but I do understand the leader’s hope to see no deaths take place in her army.” His infectious smile returned then, like rays of sunshine cutting through a slight overcast. “Dominique says that either way, there will be battle coming from this, as small pockets of resistance form hereafter, as this organization fails and splinters into smaller sects. Think you this will occur?”

/Dominique, huh?/ “It could happen,” Buffy allowed. “You becoming friendly with Dominique, Groo?”

Her buddy cocked his head slightly, looking mildly embarrassed. “She is a fine warrior,” he admitted, “and a lusty woman. A worthy partner.” He hesitated slightly. “And both Cordelias approve of her…” The last was essayed as if it were the final seal of approval.

Gunn lifted a brow. “You mean you’re finally settling down? With a Slayer? Man, I never thought I’d see the day! Get it, bro!”

“I…”

“Incoming!” the message crackled in over one of the walkie-talkies, with their magicks-augmented signals. It was Simone’s voice. “A bunch of damn civilians in soccer-mom cars. I think they’re driving in to see the show.”

“Oh, bloody fuck,” Spike muttered immediately, sounding rueful. His eyes rose to meet Buffy’s. “Outsmarted ourselves a bit, maybe, there, Buffy.”

“Oh,” Buffy whispered, abruptly freaked. She hadn’t thought of how the nearby public would respond to the news of a showdown in the offing between the mysterious demon-world and the military, right here on their doorsteps. /Which we probably should’ve, in this day and age of instant soundbytes./ “Crap.”

What the hell were they going to do about having a bunch of civvies on the scene?

***

“Seriously, though; what is it with May?” Buffy demanded as she scrambled a delegation of Slayers to go herd the hapless idiot humans out of harm’s way. “Why is it always freaking _May?_ ”

Spike grunted and lit another smoke. “It was late last year,” he pointed out, equably enough. He was clearly thinking both of Angel’s moronic assault on the Senior Partners in LA, and the Scourge War up in Scotland.

Spinning to glare at the bristling enemy line, Buffy spat, “Well, last year it wasn’t on the hellmouth.” /It’s got to be just a Sunnydale special, then. So special that it even happens when there _is_ no more freaking Sunnydale…/ 

Silence, then, “Good point. Still, this just barely qualifies as May, innit?”

Buffy made a face as she surveyed the disaster waiting to happen. She could swear it was like this stupid hole had a stopwatch inside it or something. She could almost picture it; like a massive egg timer under the earth, situated inside the gaping maw of the thing, ticking away and ready to go off at any moment now. “Are we ever gonna get away from the hellmouth, Spike?” she asked him softly.

Another short silence… and then he was at her back, his cool breath whuffling lightly against her scalp. “Oh, Love…”

Buffy closed her eyes for a brief moment and just stood with him. “Are you okay?” she asked him quietly. “Being back here? Seeing it? It’s the first time, really, right? Since you…”

“Yeah. And it’s a bit strange, I’ll admit, seein’ such unbelievable bloody devastation from my just wearin’ a soddin’ necklace.” His rumble perked with sardonic amusement from behind her left ear. “But I’ll do, luv.”

She leaned back against him, just for a moment, to let him know that she understood. Being here again was hard for her, too, considering. Seeing it—the place that had stolen him from her for over a year—it was more than strange. 

It actually kind of sucked. Like a straight-up pit of despair. /And now it’s the home of an entire army that wants to wipe us out, because why not? Is this place cursed, or…/

“Wait. Is that him?” Gunn broke in, sounding offended. “That idiot with the freaking Zorro mask? Because, seriously? If it is, Imma laugh.”

Buffy’s head jerked up, away from her brief moment’s contemplation of couple-y reassurance, and zeroed in on the direction in which Gunn was staring. And… Oh jeez. It was, in fact, the beefy-looking dude she’d seen up in England during the whole Genevieve Savidge fiasco. Which… /Could be Angel, could be someone else. He moves a little like Angel, but…/ 

And yet, how could it be? It was one thing in England, under the winter overcast and during the beginnings of a snowfall. Entirely another in the late afternoon of Southern freaking California. “I mean…” She turned to Spike, lifted a brow. “Would that even be enough clothes? Would wearing a mask like that keep a vampire from turning into a candle out here?”

Spike eyed the figure standing like a very weird, very twisted sort of superhero, off to one side, across the field. He didn’t appear to be bursting into flames. Facing away from the westering sun, yes. Very clothed, yes... but still.   
  
He could be in some shade, maybe. Tough to tell if he was, from here. He was pretty covered up, though, with all the... costumery.   
  
Also, even Spike had never been weird enough to try to come up with that dumb an anti-sun costume. He'd, like, stolen a jacket and hat on the fly—with hilarious results—but _that?_ Was insane.

After a moment, Spike shrugged. “Peaches was never one to take a risk like that. If that’s him, he’s a spell on him to keep him safe.” He tilted his head slightly, and his nostrils flared. “Can’t scent the bugger to know for sure.” He shot Buffy a brief, frustrated glance. “Wind’s not right, pet. Can’t get a proper whiff.”

Buffy frowned, licked a finger, lifted it to test the breeze. Narrowed her eyes, adjusting her gaze, then reached for one of the walkies. “Andrew, come in.”

She saw him give a start, from his spot under the other awning. “Yes, Buffy?” he answered politely, sounding polite on top and freaked underneath. “Check-check.”

Ignoring the pseudo-brisk nerd-speak, she cut to the chase. “Do me a favor and ask Harmony to test the breeze. See if she smells Angel over there.”

“Wh…”

“Just do it, Andrew.”

“Uh… okay, Boss. Your wish is my ultimate command… Uh, I beg your pardon, madame Harmony, but I must make a request...”

“I’m on the air, Andrew!”

“Yes, and I’m deeply sorry, but this comes from Buffy…”

“Oh, fine! Take five, Rick. Okay, what…”

“If you will please test the air for us, and tell us if you scent any vam-pyres you know within the ranks of the enemy…”

There was a short pause, then a gasp. “Oh my _God_ , _Angel’s_ over there with the _army!_ Why the heck would he be with _them?”_

“Thank you very much, my dear. You may continue with your interrupted broadcast.” Andrew’s courtly tones came back, brisk once more. “Buffy, are you still there? Testing, testing…”

“I’m here, Andrew. I got that. Thank you.”

Their dorky Watcher was uber-excited now. “Of course! What does it…”

“We’ll get back to you.” Buffy shut off the walkie and shot Spike a _look_. “Well, that answers that.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Now we know why the prat decided he had to dress up like a soddin’ comics character, though, innit? S’pose they wanted him up there with them, prancin’ around like a poof to let the lot of ‘em know even some demons could be on their side…” He took on a deeply-disgusted expression. “Though why the bloody hell he needed to do it in a bleedin’ cape…”

“Right?” Gunn answered, sounding if possible even more disgusted than Spike did. “The dude has seriously lost his damn mind. What the hell.” 

The computer crackled to life again behind them. “…Tells me that this group, which calls itself ‘the Twilight group’, because it spells ‘Twilight’ for the Slayers and all demonkind, is some kind of spinoff of this group that used to exist in Sunnydale. They called themselves ‘the Initiative’; and believe me, people, they were bad news. They captured my then-boyfriend and a ton of other demons, did experiments on ‘em, put them in cages, tortured them, cut them open; horrible stuff. I mean, my boyfriend? They put this chip in his head that zapped his brain with electricity; which eventually turned him into the Slayer’s puppy, but Andrew here tells me that it was probably an experiment to turn him into some sort of tame vampire-soldier or something. It was so icky. They even tried to put demon and human parts together to make some kind of freaky supersoldier, which, ew, much?”

Buffy wasn’t sure if Harmony taking this tack was good or bad, but thank goodness she was smart enough to steer clear of the reasons behind things like Spike’s chip. Considering that being real about former vampire hunting-habits might totally derail her whole ‘Reform Vampirism’ movement, it was obviously the better part of discretion to shut up about that portion of festivities. That, or she simply didn’t think it worth talking about if it wasn’t part of what she considered current events. 

As far as Buffy could tell, Harmony had kind of a short-term memory when it came to what was important. 

“Anyway, they finally got run out of town, but I understand that this is a kind of that same idea; hating demons and trying to figure out our weaknesses to destroy us. And, apparently, hating on the Slayers, because I guess at first the head Slayer was kinda helping them, just to figure out what they were up to, but when she realized what they were really doing—like, to her friend, who was a werewolf, and stuff like that—she shut them down; so now they hate Slayers too. Right?”

“That’s the summary, yes, my dear.” Andrew’s voice remained steady as he backed up Harmony’s claims. 

“Freaky,” Harmony went on. 

Sara leaned over to whisper something in the famous vampire’s ear. Harmony stared at her, eyes wide and shocked. “Oh, no way!” Her voice turned from airheaded summary to sharp pleading as she swung back to use her platform to its greatest capacity; to whip up support. “We have to see to it this is stopped, people,” she continued, and there was more intensity in her voice than Buffy thought she had ever heard from the girl in all the years she had known Harmony Kendall. “There’s room in the world for all of us, right? And if people like this win, they might end up putting all the people like me into some kind of, like, camps or something, which… I love all of you! I wanna stay on TV, and talk to you, and get to know _all_ of you, and take your calls; not end up in some horrible camp with no makeup and no cute, fluffy puppies and no cable! Why would anyone do that to us just because we’re demons? Can’t we all just get along?”

/Thank God we’ve got you on our side/ Buffy thought, shaking her head. The still-gaga public would be horrified by such a plea.

She was pretty sure that between bombing another country and the Harmony show, the Twilight group was done for. The Army would obviously have to disavow their existence in order to avoid serious repercussions. Maybe even censure or court-martial the leaders. And now that the idea of camps had been put into people’s minds, the public would be on the lookout for that, too, in future, which would be a further protection against similar agendas. /Granted the public attention span is as short as Harmony’s, but if we keep this fresh, remind them every few months…/ If they were lucky, none of the leftover dregs of the Twilight movement would be able to re-form and come after them again for a good long while. 

At least until there was some terrible incident that made demons look bad. /One that completely changes public perception, since now that we’ve tied ourselves to demonkind, that kind of one-eighty will make us sink with the ship. But we’ll deal with that when we get there./

What the current military debacle-in-the-making meant for Angel, she had no idea. 

She got her answer soon enough. 

The army lines were beginning to boil restlessly as, without further orders, or perhaps with conflicting orders, the rout began. Discomfort and uncertainty was doing its work. Their ranks began to shift, falter. /We’re gonna pull this off. We’re actually gonna pull this off!/

It would be the coup of the century, if they did.

Buffy was just about to grab Spike and start celebrating, when the reports started to come in… of Slayers, all around them, mysteriously going into epileptic fits, having seizures… and dropping dead in their tracks.

Everywhere.

* * *  
  
  
  
  
  
  


(quote by Sojourner Truth)

Working within the (putrid) canon storyline (we all despise and wish could be burned in every copy and then erased from public awareness) has given me fodder for the biggest FU in history when it comes to certain characters. Having more fun than I can really express working my way through the next few chapters. Hope y'all enjoy the one we've all been waiting for / dreading, next week, and that the lead-in has been worthy.  
  
Much love to y'all!


End file.
